




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap,'?.Z.3 Copyright No.. 

Shelt.LZ.4_2-.48 4 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






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0 


ONE WOMAN’S FATE 

AND OTHER STORIES. 


BY 

MARION WEIR. 



F. TENNYSON NEELY, 

PUBLISHER, 

LONDON. NEW YORK. CHICAGO. 


L 




•FOONH ''.OPV, 

I6W9. 



40287 


Copyright, 1899, 
by 

F. Tennyson Neely, 
in 

United States 
and 

Great Britain. 


All Rights Reserved. 





CONTENTS. 

One Woman’s Fate 5 

Not Miss Higgins 18 

That Telegram. 31 

His Messenger 38 

A Last Request 45 

I, Doris Lane 52 

Her Story 77 

After the Ball 83 

Paul de Morceau 90 


ONE WOMAN’S FATE 

AND OTHER STORIES. 


ONE WOMAN’S FATE. 

A STORY OF NEW YORK SOCIAL LIFE. 

I. 

“3 Fifth Avenue, 

“New York, November 10, 189 — . 
“My Dear Darling Mamma: 

“At last I am here. Thank you, thank you, 
thank you for letting me come. 

“New York is the noisiest, queerest, slush- 
iest, dearest place in this world. 

“Our train got in about eight last evening, and 
we steamed into a huge arched place which Mr. 
Jerome told me afterward was some kind of a 
Central Depot, great, I think he said. 

“Oh! I forgot. You don’t know who Mr. 
Jerome is, do you? Well, he’s a cousin of 
Nina’s, and he seems to spend a good deal of 
his time here. He’s tall and almost fair — you 
know I detest very blonde men — and his eyes 
are — but, come to think of it, I don’t believe I 
know what color they are — yet. Anyway, he’s 
nice, and he sings; but goodness! I haven’t 
told you a single, solitary thing about New 
York. If only you were here, it would be too 


One Woman's Fate 


heavenly , you must come some time. When 
I'm married, perhaps. Of course I shall never get 
married and leave all you blessed people at 
home, but just in case I did, wouldn’t it be 
jolly to have you all come and visit me, that is, 
if I should live in New York? Now ‘where am 
I at?’ as Charlie says. (Dear old boy; hug him 
for his sister, please.) Oh, yes, at the depot, 
only I stopped to put in all that about Mr. 
Jerome. 

“Mr. Karstairs and Nina met us at the train. 
I introduced Mrs. Brown to them, and then 
asked Mr. Karstairs if he would please give the 
address that Mrs. Brown had written on a card 
to some cab-driver so that the poor lady 
wouldn’t get lost. 

“He insisted upon her coming right in the car- 
riage with us — wasn’t it nice of him? — and 
asked for the check of her trunk. Poor Mrs. 
Brown. She wouldn’t let him have it at first 
She said ‘Silas had given her instructions as 
to how she mustn't give it to nobody but a man 
with ‘Express on his cap.’ ” Finally she gave 
in, though she ‘didn’t see how them folks would 
know which was her trunk/ 

“Her sister lived near, and I didn’t forget to 
thank her for letting me travel with her, before 
she got out. 

“Of course, at school I have heard Nina talk 
about New York society and some people she 
called the ‘four hundred,’ or was it thousand?’ 
I forget. But I never expected in all my life 
to drive in a carriage all lined with blue satin, 
with two men on the box, and rubber things on 
6 


and! Other Stories* 


the wheels — so that you can talk — behind a pair 
of horses you would think were running away 
every minute. We drove down Fifth Avenue 
— the ‘aristocratic thoroughfare of the city/ Mr. 
Jerome calls it — but it was too dark to see 
much. 

“This house is splendid. Why, it’s almost 
as big as that hotel we stopped at last summer, 
and my room is larger than our parlor at home. 

“Mrs. Karstairs is lovely, but so sort of 
queenly and dressed up that I just guess Nina 
doesn’t dare to hug her as I hug you. She said 
she hoped I would try and not be homesick, 
etc., just as people always say to girls in books 
— then she went to a horse show, and I’m going 
to-night. 

“We didn’t have breakfast till nine o’clock 
this morning. At eleven Nina and I went for 
a walk up Fifth Avenue, and stopped at the 
dressmaker’s. I ordered some of the dresses 
and lots of other things that Uncle Robert gave 
me the check for. It seems an awful lot to 
spend on clothes. 

“On the way home we went down Broad- 
way, where all the lovely big stores are, and 
had soda water with ice cream in it at ‘Huy- 
ler’s.’ Think of eating ice cream in November! 
I asked Nina if they took it all winter. She 
laughed and said: ‘Mercy, yes; all the year 
round.’ We met Mr. Jerome. He walked 
home with us and stayed to lunch. At four 'he 
victoria came and Nina took me to the paik. 
I never saw anything so beautiful, and every- 
body in New York must have a carriage; there 
7 


One Woman's Fate 


were thousands of them. Nina bowed so much 
that I wonder she hasn’t got a stiff neck. We 
only just got home half an hour ago, and now I 
must stop scribbling, mother dear, and dress 
for dinner. Nina says she just loves your pho- 
tograph. I wonder what she’d do if she saw the 
original ! Oceans of love to you all, from 

“Marie.” 


II. 

“New York, November 20, 189 — v 
“My Belovedest of Mothers: 

“So much has happened since I wrote last 
week that I scarcely know where to begin to 
tell you all about it. Well, of course, there was 
the horse show. It was fine. Such horses, 
such crowds of people, and such dresses ! 

“It was at the ‘Madison Square Garden,’ a 
huge place with a tower, and we had a box in 
the center of the building. We didn’t pay half 
as much attention to the horses as we did to the 
people. It was a regular reception, and I met 
so many of the Karstairs’ friends that I’m sure 
I won’t know a quarter of them again. 

‘Mr. Jerome’s four-in-hand coach got the 
first prize, and we were all so glad. He has 
asked us to drive out to the Country Club on it 
next Wednesday, and take lunch there. 

‘‘Oh! then I was so excited when the 
mounted policemen pretended to catch a runa- 
way horse, that I caught hold of Mr. Jerome's 
arm; he was next to me. I know I should 
have been more careful, for I saw Nina glance 
8 


and Other Stories* 


at her mother, but he only laughed and said ' 
‘Did it make you nervous, Miss Weston?* 

“After the show we went to Delmonico’s to 
supper. Mr. Jerome went with us and a Mr. 
Prescott. I don’t like Mr. Prescott, but I guess 
Nina does, for she blushes almost every time he 
speaks to her. Mr. Karstair made Madame 
Lagrange, the dressmaker, send me one of my 
ball gowns yesterday, for the Assembly Ball 
last evening. I just wish you could see it, that’s 
all. It’s pink, sort of satin, and is trimmed 
with a lot of lovely lace; only I’m sure you 
will think it’s cut too low around the neck, and 
there are big puffs for sleeves. I’ve found out 
that Mr. Jerome’s first name is ‘Gordon,’ and 
that he is ‘junior/ 

“On his card, which came with a lovely bou- 
quet of pink roses last evening, it said; ‘Mr. 
Gordon Jerome, Jr., Calumet Club.’ 

“Poor fellow! I wonder if he always lives 
at a stupid club? 

“We stayed till nearly two o’clock this 
morning at the Assembly, and even then I 
hadn’t dances enough to go around. Imagine! 
To-day my name is in the papers, and a descrip- 
tion of my gown. Mrs. Karstairs says I’m an 
‘emphatic success,’ and if that means getting 
all the cards and invitations that have come for 
me, I surely must be one. 

“We went to a large reception this after- 
noon. The people are very rich, and Nina says 
they are trying to ‘buy a title’ for their daugh- 
ter. What do you suppose that means? I didn’t 
like to ask. There were a lot of girls receiving 
9 


One Woman's Fate 

with the daughter, and lovely, dreamy music 
came from a big square landing on the stairs. 
My ! The people talked so loud I could hardly 
hear my own voice. 

“To-night we are going to the Lyceum Thea- 
ter to see ‘The Wife.’ Mrs. Karstairs has 
asked Mr. Prescott and a Mr. Remsen to go 
with us. Nina says Mr. Remsen’s a ‘desperate 
flirt,’ so I guess I’ll be very careful what I say 
to him, wouldn’t you? They want me to stay 
till April. May I? Mrs. Karstairs sends kind 
regards, and says she will write to you herself. 

“With best love, 

“Marie. 

“P. S. — I forgot to tell you that Mr. Remsen 
sent me a big box of cut flowers this morning. 
Nina says he's smitten, whatever that may be; 
but I think the way he talks is too silly for 
anything.” 


“3 Fifth Avenue, Christmas Day. 
“My Darling Mother: 

“Next to being at home I’d rather be here 
than any place else to-day. They are all very 
kind and have made me beautiful presents, but 
the box you sent me pleased me most. I sent 
you my photograph and hope you will recog- 
nize your daughter in the gown she wore to the 
Charity Ball. Mrs. Karstairs thinks them per- 
fect, and Mr. Jerome asked me for one. I had 
to tell him 1 couldn’t give it to him, for Nina 
looked so shocked when I spoke of it to her. 
I’m awfully sorry now, for I received a superb 
10 


and Other Sto ties* 


basket of bonbons from him this morning, 
together with a big bunch of violets — almost 
too big to wear to church, as he wanted me to 
do. 

“I think you would like him, mother He is 
different from the other men I’ve met here — 
more dignified, and never a bit ‘gossipy . 5 His 
father and mother live out West, and he 5 s an 
only child. 

“Oh, I am so glad I may stay till April, for 
I want to see a whole ‘season 5 here. 

“There was the second Assembly and the 
first Patriarchs ball on last week, and the 
papers called me ‘Miss Weston, of Maine.’ 
Just as if Maine was a city. 

“Mother, what will you think when I tell 
you that Mr, Remsen proposed to me last night? 
I cannot tell you how sorry and, I must say, 
disgusted I was. Why, we’ve only known of 
each other’s existence for five weeks! It was 
at a dance the Hamiltons gave for their debu- 
tante daughter, and it happened after supper, 
while I was ‘sitting out’ an interlude with him. 

“I know he thinks me ‘strong-minded,’ for I 
gave him a regular lecture on the solemnity of 
marriage and the dreadfulness of making a 
mistake. 

“I might just as well have talked to a 
dummy, for he only stared at me through that 
ridiculous eyeglass of his, and drawled, when 
I had finished: ‘You have the most extwaordi- 
nary ideas of matrimony I ever heard, by Jove!’ 

“I may be wrong, mamma— I hope I am — - 
but from what I’ve seen here, it seems to me 
11 


One Woman's Fate 


that marriages are too often cases of ‘knocking 
down to the highest bidder’ the fairest rosebud 
of the season. Nina becomes more and more 
infatuated with Richard Prescott, and he 
appears to be very devoted. 

“There was a charity sale at Sherry’s last 
Tuesday. 

“We helped Mrs. Dunbar-Rives at the flower 
booth, Nina and I. Mr. Jerome won a very 
handsome basket of orchids and hyacinths, 
which Thorley presented to the sale, and when 
I got home that night I found it there for me. 
He always has such pretty ideas, and does 
everything so quietly. I can’t help wondering 
if he’s ever been in love. Nina says all the men 
she knows are engaged more than once, some- 
times, before they marry. I don't believe he's 
that sort a bit. 

“Mrs. Karstairs is going to chaperone a party 
of ten of us to Lakewood for the holidays. We 
leave to-morrow and return on the 10th, 

“The two De Yere girls, Miss Barton, Nina 
and I; and Mr. Prescott (of course), Lord Lynn, 
a mere boy, with a droll lisp, Mr. Romeyn and 
his brother, and Mr. Jerome are the men. I 
wonder if it’s because Pm growing older that 
I’ve stopped ‘anticipating’ pleasure? 

“Sometimes I look at my list of engagements 
for the day and long to stay at home and be 
alone for a few hours at least. There’s so much 
to think about and I don’t have time. 

“My dear love to all, and best wishes for a 
happy Christmas Day. 


12 


“Marie.” 


and Other Stories* 


“New York, April 3d. 
“Dear, Dear Mamma: 

“Expect me home on Wednesday. I am 
crazy to see you, and to tell you all about my 
visit. You’ll have to listen to the whole thing 
over again from beginning to end. 

“And then — there’s something else. Mr. 
Jerome has done me the honor of asking me to 
be his wife, and — I have accepted — on condition 
of your approval and father’s, of course. 

“He is so true, mother, not “goody-goody” 
one bit — but the very soul of honor. 

“I never dreamed of his loving me, until — • 
well, until we went to Lakewood last Decem- 
ber, and then I guess you read between the 
lines of my letters, from what you said in one 
of yours. 

“He is writing to father, to-day, and so is 
Mr. Karstairs. 

“They are all delighted, and I shall be 
Nina’s cousin; won’t it seem funny? 

“You will see him next Saturday — and don y t 
you think we might make his room at the hotel 
look a little more cheerful and homelike before 
he comes? I’m afraid he will find a vast dif- 
ference between his apartments and our poor 
little hotel, but he says — well, I won’t tell you 
what he says. It would look so foolish on 
paper. 

“I suppose people will saj r that I am marry- 
ing for money — he’s dreadfully rich, Nina told 
me so — but we — he and I — know that I’m not, 
so I don’t care. 

“Can a girl love too well when she loves a 
18 


One Woman's Fate 


man like him? I hope not, for, mother, he has 
become my very life. 

“ Good-by till Wednesday. 

“Marie.” 


II. 

“That ye may so live together in this life, 
that in the world to come ye may have life 
everlasting. Amen. ’ ’ 

A solemn hush hung over the great church, 
as the rector pronounced these words of bene- 
diction upon the pair before him. 

Then, suddenly the old, glad strains of the 
wedding march burst from the organ loft, as 
bride and bridegroom turned to leave the altar. 
Many in the large and fashionable assemblage 
spoke of the charming manner in which Mrs. 
Jerome recognized her friends and acquaint- 
ances in passing; others, of the magnificence 
of her wedding-gown and jewels, but those who 
knew her best were struck by the look of peace 
and joy in the girl’s dark eyes, which they 
never forgot. 

“Now, tell me how it all happened,” said 
Mrs. Dunbar- Rives to her sister, as they drove 
down Fifth Avenue, en route for the reception. 
She had returned from abroad only yesterday, 
and had heard none of the particulars of the 
case. 

“Well, you see, it was like this,” began Mrs. 
Le Roy, settling herself comfortably against 
the cushions of the brougham: “Gordon 
14 


and Other Stories* 


Jerome fell in love with the girl while she was 
visiting the Karstairs, and followed her home. 
She lived up in Maine, you know, and was a 
school-friend of Nina’s at Farmington. A 
month later the engagement appeared in all the 
papers, on the Karstairs’ authority. Gordon 
spent the best part of the summer up North, 
and in October a wealthy bachelor uncle of the 
young woman hired the Fleming’s house for 
the season ; her family moved in — et les voila . ” 
“She is a sweet girl, one any man might be 
proud of,” said Mrs. Dunbar-Rives decisively; 
“but we all know Gordon, my dear, and 
shouldn’t expect too much — should we? Ah, 
here we are,” she went on, as the carriage 
stopped before a handsome residence, “and it’s 
going to be a dreadful crush!” 


III. 

“631 Fifth Avenue, November 12th. 
“My Dearest Mother: 

“Home again, and I’m so glad ! 

“Europe is all very well for a few months, 
but one does get tired of sightseeing in time. 
How does it seem to you to be back in the 
North again? The restfulness of it must be 
delicious. 

“Do you know it is just two years since I 
came to New York first? And I have been 
married almost a year. Somehow it all seems 
longer. The Horse Show opens the season this 
week. Our box is one of the best to be had, 
15 


One Woman's Fate 

and Gordon has five horses entered. We drive 
so much that it’s growing positively monoto- 
nous, and I believe I know every tree in the 
park. 

“A few of the ‘bachelors’ are getting up a 
ball for next month — quite an elaborate affair. 
Gordon wants me to wear the gown in which I 
was presented in London last season, but I 
don’t think I shall, it’s so heavy. 

“We give a dinner of fifty, and afterwaid a 
dance, next Thursday, in honor of Nina’s 
engagement to Dick Prescott. It has just been 
announced, and they are to be married in 
Easter week. 

“Gordon is home so little now, and I can’t 
bear going everywhere alone. 

“Won’t you come and spend the winter with 
us, mother? I want you so much. 

“Your loving daughter, 

“Marie Jerome.” 


“631 Fifth Avenue, March 11th. 

“Your visit did me so much good, mother 
dear, and now I miss you sadly. 

‘I have tried to follow out your advice, tried 
to shut my eyes to many things, to be patient 
and cheerful ; tried most of all to win back my 
husband’s love — and have failed. 

“He has never been the same since that night 
in London, when I found him reading — that 
woman’s letter. 

“His coldness, his neglect — except when the 
eyes of the world are upon us — are intolerable. 

16 


and Other Stories* 

How I trusted him! how he made me trust 
him from the lirst. 

“He and Dick Prescott are always together. 
I should like to tell Nina everything, to warn 
her, but I dare not. Besides, we think so dif- 
ferently about some things. 

“Write to me, mother, and comfort me. 

“Marie.” 


“New York, May 22, 189—. 

“Mother, I am coming home. I cannot, will 
not remain here any longer. The insincerity, 
the taunts, the pity of ‘society’ are killing me. 

“They almost laugh at me for caring, when 
all the world knows my husband is untrue to 
me; but, thank God ! I can still be true to my- 
self. 

“Dear Mrs. Dunbar-Rives! She has been my 
best friend through it all. It is at her advice, as 
well as at my lawyer’s, that I have now begun 
proceedings for an absolute divorce. Do you 
blame me, mother? Was he not all a girl could 
desire, as a lover? 

“I scarcely see him now; he has been away 
for some weeks, and to-morrow I go to Mrs. 
Dunbar-Rives, until I can arrange to come to 
you. 

“Oh, I long for the peace and quiet of the 
country ; even though every step of it, for miles 
around, will be a memory; a reminder of that 
happy summer, before I learned the saddest fate 
of a woman. 


17 


“Marie.” 


One Woman's Fate 


NOT MISS HIGGINS. 

They were still laughing over some unusu- 
ally brilliant remark of Fred Trevor’s, when 
the door opened and Miss Maitland entered the 
room. She was not a beautiful girl, but she 
was always called pretty and attractive in 
appearance, and her manner was charming. 
She stood for a moment on the threshold, then 
went to her mother and dropped into a low 
chair beside her. 

“Oh, I am tired!” she exclaimed, “and I 
have just had quite an adventure in the woods. 
No, not a word about it, till after tea,” as a 
volley of interrogatories followed. “Yes, cake, 
please, Mr. Patteson — and a big piece, too — I’m 
famished. Freddy!” indignantly, casting a 
look full of reproach at Mr, Trevor, who was 
urging her to hurry up and eat, “would you 
have me choke?” 

“Not I!” responded that young man gal- 
lantly; then he added, with truly cousinly can- 
dor, “or, at least, not until we have heard your 
adventure.” 

“Well, it was like this,” began Miss Mait- 
land, forgetful of her resolve to keep them wait- 
ing in her eagerness to begin : “Mrs. Higgins, 
at Cousin Mildred’s lodge, promised me a dear 
18 


and Other Stories* 


little kitten as soon as it could be taken from its 
mother; to-day I felt like a long walk, and as 
you were all too lazy — too lazy!” she repeated, 
with a glance of withering scorn directed full 
at the unfortunate Mr. Trevor, “to accompany 
me, I went alone.” 

“That’s me!” whispered Mr. Trevor, un- 
grammatically, in a conscience-stricken way; 
then, aloud: “Score one on the shovel for that, 
Mary Ann.” 

“My dear Fred,” said Mrs. Maitland, when 
the general laugh had subsided a little, “I 
really must ask you to leave that horrid slang 
in London, or at any rate confine it to the smok- 
ing room here.” Her tone was severe, but she 
smiled as she spoke, and cast a loving, if re- 
proachful, glance at her incorrigible nephew. 

“Yes, aunt,” said the culprit meekly. 

“Gladys, dear,” to his cousin, with exagger- 
ated politeness, “I fear I interrupted you. 
Pray continue your narrative, and no further 
comment shall escape me, I promise you.” 

“Higgins showed me the kittens,” Miss Mait- 
land went on, “and said I might suiely have 
mine next week. Then she begged me to wait 
for some of her famous currant bread, which, 
she explained, ‘is just in the hoven, and w T ith 
such a crust, Miss!’ I promised to do so, and 
sat down before the fire in her little sitting 
room with a kitten in my lap. 

“It was snowing hard, you know, and I wore 
an old gown and heavy boots and the wdnd had 
blown my hair all about. Altogether, I might 
easily have been mistaken for the lodge-keep- 
19 


One Woman's Fate ' , ", 

er’s daughter — and so I was!” An astonisned 
exclamation burst from her audience, as she 
paused to laugh heartily over it all. 

“Well, I was sitting there, looking into the 
fire, my chin upon my hands, when suddenly 
I heard footsteps behind me, and turning I saw 
a strange man standing there in the middle of 
the room. Escape was my first thought f he 
startled me so, but my fear soon changed to 
surprise, for he said: ‘Is your mother in, my 
girl? I want to see if I can board my man here 
for a week, while I am in town. ’ Then* I don’t 
know whatever made me do it, but quick as a 
flash up I jumped and courtesied to him, as I 
answered, still holding the kitten. ‘I’ll find 
mother, sir, and tell her you are here/ and 
rushed out of the room. I met Higgins in the 
hall, carrying a plate of currant bread and a 
glass of milk in her hands. I hurriedly repeated 
what had happened, and implored bor to leave 
the gentleman in ignorance of my true name 
and station. Then, regardless of her astonished 
‘Lor’, Miss! whatever made you?’ I seized the 
plate in one hand, the glass in the other, and 
fled to the kitchen, where I sat down to enjoy 
my repast. In a few moments I heard voices, 
as Higgins showed her mysterious visitor to the 
door, and could hear him ask : ‘Is she your only 
child, Mrs. Higgins?’ 

“So they were evidently talking of me; I 
was the ( soi-disant ) ‘child’ in question, and it 
was too ridiculous to hear poor old Higgins, 
who had never had a daughter, mumbling 
something about ‘a son at sea.’ She was 
20 


&nci Other Stories* 

hoping, I am sure, that I was not within 
earshot ! 

4 4 Soon after that I started for home, and came 
by the short cut through the woods. It had 
stopped snowing, so I went a little out of my 
way to the holly hedge near Cousin Mildred’s 
deer park to get some holly for my room. I 
managed to cut quite a little with my pocket 
scissors, and had tied it together securely with 
my handkerchief, when, suddenly, a • curious 
sniffing sound near by startled me. Close be- 
side me, eyeing me intently, stood the largest 
dog I have ever seen. 

4 << Oh, you beauty!’ I exclaimed, involun- 
tarily, and at the sound of my voice a head was 
poked quickly around the end of the hedge, 
then as quickly disappeared. Another moment 
and the hero of my adventure stood before me. 

4 Is it really Miss Higgins? I hope my dog did 
not frighten you,’ he said, raising his hat. 
‘Hector, you wretch! Come here!’ he added, 
for the dog had thrust his cold nose into my 
hand, and stood wagging his tail with delight, 
as I stroked his head. 

4 4 4 Oh, I like him!’ I hastened to say; then, 
the spirit of mischief still rampant within me, 
I inquired with just a soupgon of Miss Higgins’ 
cockney, if 4 my mother’ had been able to ac- 
commodate him? 

4 4 He answered me very politely, but kept his 
eyes fixed so steadily upon me that I felt sure 
he must know I was deceiving him, and I 
almost wished I hadn’t. Then he insisted upon 
seeing me home, and he carried my holly for 
21 


One Woman's Fate 


me, too, all the way back to the lodge; for, of 
course, then I did not dare tell him who I was 
or where I lived.” 

Here Mr. Trevor breathed a scarcely audible 
“What a sell!” which Miss Maitland heard 
and promptly resented. 

“You may call it a ‘sell’ — whatever that is 
— if you like, Teddy,” she said reprovingly, 
“but it was no joke walking all that wa} T , and 
then, when he had gone, having to run home, 
so as not to be out late alone. Yes, mamma, it 
was ver} T wrong, I know, to be in the woods 
with a strange man, but I was ‘Miss Higgins’ 
then, which wasn’t exactly the same as being 
‘Miss Maitland,’ of course; and after all, it was 
no harm, for I never expect to see my handsome 
cavalier again — it was very evident that he was 
a stranger here.” 

“Is that all, Gladys?” asked her little sister, 
who was sitting on a rug before the fire. 

“All, Dorothy!’ repeated Miss Maitland, 
severely. “Isn’t that quite enough to happen 
in one day?” 

“Well, you said it was an ‘adventure,’ and 
nurse says there are always bears and lions and 
fairy princes in truly adventures,” said the 
child in a disappointed tone. 

“Next time, Gladys,” said Mr. Trevor, 
“please have a bear, a lion, or a fairy prince in 
your adventure — the latter preferred. Hooray ! 
the dressing bell. I say, Dorothy, I’ll give you 
sixpence if you catch me before I get to my 
door!” and away they ran, followed more leis- 
urely by the others to dress for dinner. 

22 


and Other Stories* 


II. 

The hunt breakfast was over, and the fol- 
lowers of the Sussex foxhounds were assembled 
in the field one bright November morning, eager 
for the run. All of Mrs. Maitland’s house 
party had come to the “Meet,” either riding or 
driving, and Gladys, on her favorite mount — a 
glossy bay — was talking and laughing with a 
number of her friends when a lady rode up to 
their group followed closely by a man, fault- 
lessly attired in a “pink.” Just then Fred 
Trevor, who was never very far from Miss 
Maitland, felt some one clutch frantically at his 
coat tails, and turning heard his cousin’s voice 
whisper imploringly, “Teddy, come quick! I 
want to speak to you. ’ 9 

Without a word, he followed her to another 
part of the field, when she asked, excitedly, 
pointing with her riding-crop to the group they 
had just left: “Who is that man with Cousin 
Mildred? The one who came up with her a 
moment ago?” 

“That? Why, it’s Lester Sedgewick; old pal 
of mine at Oxford, you know, and the best fel- 
low alive. I’ll go get him, if you like, 
and ” 

“You will do nothing of the sort,” inter- 
rupted Gladys; then, desperately: “I suppose 
I may as well tell you, Teddy, that he, your 
‘old pal,’ and I are already acquainted.” 

“Eh, what?” asked Mr. Trevor in amaze- 
ment. “Where did you meet him?” 

23 


One Woman's Fate 

“At the lodge,” answered Miss Maitland, 
shortly but emphatically. 

Mr. Trevor stared for a minute, then gave 
way to his mirth. 

“Oh, I say!” he gasped, when he could suffi- 
ciently command his voice. “Old Sedgewick, 
eh? But you’ll have to meet him, as he is vis- 
iting Cousin Mildred, and has no doubt heard 
of you. May I present him formally to you, 
‘Miss Higgins’?” 

“Don’t present him at all, till it’s absolutely 
necessary,” said ‘Miss Higgins,’ decidedly. 

“Well, there’s no eluding him, ma cousine 
went on Mr. Trevor unmercifully; “he has 
bought the old Meredith place here, you know.” 

“Teddy! He hasn’t! I don’t believe you!” 
exclaimed poor Gladys in despair. 

“Oh, very well; perhaps I had better go ask 
him,” began her cousin huffily, gathering up 
his reins. 

“But, Teddy, think! I let him believe me to 
be ‘Miss Higgins,’ and I might easily have 
told him the truth. Oh, that odious kitten! 1 
wish I had never heard of it!” 

She was so evidently in earnest that Trevor’s 
heart smote him. 

“Never mind, little girl! I’ll stick to you, 
and together we’ll defy him!” he assured her 
good-naturedly. 

“Ah! they’ve found!” he exclaimed, a mo- 
ment afterward. “Come on, let’s take that 
fence lower down,” and together they started 
in the direction indicated by the baying of the 
hounds as that which they had taken. For half 
U 


and Other Stories* 


an hour they rode “hard” and were well up 
with the hounds, when suddenly Gladys gave 
a little cry. “Oh, what a pity ! Poor old Vic- 
tor! He has dropped a shoe, Teddy, and is 
going lame. I must take him home. No, you 
go on,” she added, seeing him hold in his horse. 
“Hurry, and be in at the death.” 

“Well, if you don’t mind,” he commenced, 
but Miss Maitland shook her head, and with a 
hasty “good-by, take care of yourself,” he was 
off again after the hounds. 

Gladys turned her horse’s head toward home, 
and rode slowly across a couple of fields, when 
suddenly she saw something which filled her 
with a nameless fear. Lester Sedgewick’s 
horse was standing riderless beside a low hedge, 
and not a dozen yards beyond lay the prostrate 
form of his owner. Every particle of color left 
her face, and her hand trembled, as Gladys rode 
quietly up to Sedgewick’s horse, and taking 
hold of the bridle led him to a fence near-by, 
where she tied him first, and then, dismount- 
ing, told Victor to “stand.” She knelt beside 
the unconscious man, and raising his head 
gently from the ground, rested it against her 
knee, repeating his name over and over as she 
did so. Then, as she was wondering if she 
should leave him and go for help, the dark 
eyes opened and looked into hers, in a bewil- 
dered way, before he said, faintly : 

“Miss — Miss Higgins! Is it really you?” 

“Are you hurt?” asked the girl softly, al- 
most fearing to ask the question. 

“I think not. I was only a little stunned by 
25 


One Woman's Fate 


the fall,” he answered quickly, “and shall be 
all right again in a moment or two,” he added, 
closing his eyes with a sigh. 

“Oh! I am afraid you are hurt,” persisted 
Gladys, a little embarrassed by her unusual 
position. 

A little pause — then Mr. Sedgewick slowly 
reopened his eyes, and rising to his feet, put 
out his hands to Miss Maitland, and helped her 
from the ground, saying: “Now I am quite 
myself again. Let me thank you, Miss Hig- 
gins; you have been very good to me, and your 
voice calling me by name restored me to con- 
sciousness. May I ask how you found it out?” 
he went on, as with his hand resting on her 
arm for support, they walked slowly to where 
the horses had been left. 

He smiled as he spoke, and Gladys looking 
straight before her did not see the gleam of fun 
in his eyes. “Did you not tell my mother your 
name, sir, the day you came to the lodge?” she 
answered calmly, resolving to play the role to 
the end, if possible. 

“Did I? Ah! perhaps I did,” he answered, 
as he helped her to remount Victor, glancing, 
as he did so, from the handsome hunter to the 
saddle-cloth, embroidered with the Maitland 
crest; then from the girl in her tight-fitting 
habit of dark blue, to the jewelled handle of her 
crop, and the dainty gloved hand which held it 

At that moment their eyes met, and some- 
thing in Sedgewick’s glance made Miss Mait- 
land blush guiltily, as it occurred to her that it 
was scarcely in keeping for the daughter of a 
26 


and Other Storks* 


lodge-keeper to be thus attired and mounted on 
a hunter valued at two hundred pounds. What 
must he think of h9r? 

“I am afraid you think me a very poor horse- 
man, Miss Higgins,” said Sedgewick, breaking 
in upon her thoughts just then. “The fact is, 
my horse and I are too much of the same dis- 
position to make it quite pleasant on all occa- 
sions. We are both stubborn, and when, this 
morning, he had evidently made up his mind 
not to take that hedge, I decided that he must. 
The result was my fall — after his submission. 
But how came you to be riding by at that pre- 
cise moment, my good Samaritan?” 

“Victor lost a shoe in the field, so I had to 
give up the run and bring him home,” began 
Gladys; then, impulsively deciding to give her- 
self over to the enemy, she said, hurriedly: 
“Mr. Sedgewick, I have a confession to make 
to you. When I first saw you at Mrs. Hig- 
gins’ lodge you, very naturally, mistook me for 
Mrs. Higgins’ daughter — for which I have not 
quite forgiven you” — with a charming blush. 
“And, afterward in the woods, I let you believe 
me to be Miss Higgins, thinking I should never 
see you again. But now that I know who you 
are, and that we are to be neighbors, I want to 
tell you that I am ” 

“Miss Maitland,” said Sedgewick quietly, 
lifting his hat. 

A little exclamation of surprise burst from 
Gladys’ lips. “How did you know? When 
did you find it out?” she inquired in amaze- 
ment. 


27 


One Woman's Fate 


“Well, I, too, have a little confession to 
make, if you will allow me,” answered Sedge- 
wick smilingly. “When you let me carry the 
holly for you on that never-to-be-forgotten occa- 
sion of our first meeting, you forgot, perhaps, 
that it was tied with a handkerchief, and that 
in one corner of that handkerchief a name which 
was not ‘Higgins’ was embroidered.” 

“And you have known all the time. Oh! 
how could you?” breathed Miss Maitland, but 
she hung her head and looked a little confused, 
while Sedgewick continued: “It flashed across 
my mind then and there that you were inten- 
tionally deceiving me, and, for revenge, I took 
you back to the lodge.” 

“Well, upon my word!” said Miss Maitland, 
deliberately lifting her head and looking him 
full in the face. “If that isn’t about the mean- 
est thing I ever heard of.” 

“Hear me out,” urged her companion; “the 
revenge may not be all on my side, for you 
gave me a far longer walk than I did you, and 
made me lose my tea in the bargain.” 

“I? How?” questioned Miss Maitland. 

“Do you think for an instant that I would 
have left you to walk home alone so late, and 
knowing, as I did, how far you would have to 
go?” he asked reproachfully. “No, Miss Mait- 
land. I followed you home, and kept you in 
sight until the doors of ‘Elmside’ closed upon 
you and I knew you were safe.” 

“You followed me?” said Gladys, half-inter- 
rogatively ; then she burst into a peal of merry 
laughter. “Oh, how I must have made you 
28 


and Other Stones* 

walk,” she said presently/ ‘for I ran — I simply 
tore all the way. 5> 

“Don’t speak of it — I know it,” he begged. 
“Ah! here we are, at Elmside. Miss Mait- 
land” — turning suddenly to her — '“will you 
allow me the privilege of an old friend of the 
family, and let me take you to drive to-morrow 
at four?” 

“I shall be delighted,” responded Glad} r s 
warmly; and more than once that day she 
found herself wondering if the sun had ever 
shone so brightly before or why it was that life 
seemed so unusually sweet and she so unspeak- 
ably happy. 


III. 

“And now, my friends, before the ladies leave 
us, I have some news for you,” said Mr. Mait- 
land, rising from his seat at the table. It was 
New Year’s Eve, and dinner was over at 
“Elmside,” still Mrs. Maitland had not left 
the room , she was evidently waiting for some- 
thing. 

A faint murmur of surprise passed from one 
to another of the guests, some twenty in num- 
ber, who had been bidden to “ring out the Old 
and welcome in the New Year.” 

“It seems to me,” continued their host, “that 
no more suitable occasion could present itself 
than now, as we stand on the threshold of a 
new year, to wish all happiness to two among 
us here to-night who have lately plighted their 
troth. I refer to my daughter, Gladys, and Mr. 

29 


One Woman's Fate 


Sedgewick, and I propose drinking their 
health.” 

“Call that news?” asked Mr. Trevor, when 
every one had answered to the toast, and Mr. 
Sedgewick had spoken briefly of his happiness ; 
“why, any one who wasn’t totally blind could 
have seen that for weeks past!” 

“Oh, Teddy !” burst indignantly from Gladys, 
at which they all laughed. Then followed con- 
gratulations and good wishes galore to the 
happy pair. An hour or so later, seeing her 
look somewhat fatigued, Sedgewick made his 
escape with Gladys to the library, where the 
lights were dim, and a roaring fire w r as blazing. 

“ Wasn’t it all lovely, Lester?” asked Gladys, 
when they were seated on a little sofa before the 
fire “Father spoke so sweetly, and every one 
was very kind, but when your turn came and 
you said such nice things of me, I wanted to” 
— she paused and threw one white arm around 
his neck. 

“Wanted to what, darling?” he asked fondly, 
pressing his lips to her hand. 

“I wanted to cry,” finished Miss Maitland, 
with a little tremble in her voice. 

“To cry! Why, Gladys, my pet, did it make 
you unhappy to ” 

“Unhappy! Lester /” with deep reproach. 
“It was because I was thinking that I had 
never been perfectly happy in my life 
until ” 

“Until?” he repeated softty. 

“Until I knew that you loved me,” she whis- 
pered. 


30 


and Other Stories* 


THAT TELEGRAM. 

“ Dai sy, Dai sy. 

Give me your answer true ; 

I’m half crazy, 

All for the love of you v — 

sang the gay young voice of some one passing 
under my window. 

“ It won’t be a stylish marriage, 

For I can’t afford a carriage,” 

I went on, involuntarily taking up the refrain. 
“Alas! There is more truth than poetry in 
that,” I sighed, my eyes roving restlessly 
around my shabbily furnished bachelor apart- 
ments. 

I thought of my own Daisy, and how she had 
told me that she did not care for all the riches 
in the land, so long as we had each other; and 
then I dropped into my old armchair and fell 
a-dreaming. 

I saw her, beautifully gowned, and riding in 
a splendid victoria, behind two dashing bays, 
but there was a sad, far-off look in her e}’es 
which I had never seen there, and the man who 
sat beside her was one whom I knew to be my 
rival — a man of wealth and influence who had 
sought her hand. 


31 


One Woman's Fate 


I stood on the corner and her carriage passed 
close to me, but she did not seem to see me, 
and I turned back in despair to these same 
lodgings, where I had denied myself so many 
of the luxuries of life, to put by a tidy sum 
for the home we had planned together. 
Ah ! small need of money now for such a pur- 
pose, I thought. Then there came a knock at 
my door, and I awoke from my reverie and 
started up, thanking God that it was all a 
dream. 

“ A tilligram, surr.” 

It was the voice of my landlady’s maid-of-all- 
work, and I hastened to obey her call and 
opened the door. With a grimy hand she 
handed me the yellow envelope and smiled 
genially. 

“I hopes it’s no bad news, surr?” she re- 
marked questioningly. 

“Thank you. I hope not,” I answered, and 
closed the door. Then I tore open the message. 
Twice — three times — I read the words, till at 
last they swam before my eyes and, dropping 
the paper, I sank into the nearest chair and cov- 
ered my face with my hands. Even then I 
could see those words ; they seemed seared into 
my brain. “Forgive me, Jack. I cannot 
marry you. Come to-morrow at five — not 
sooner — and I shall explain. Daisy.” 

It was all too horrible, too unheard of, to be 
true. Only to-day had I seen her, and she had 
said — but pshaw ! what did it matter now what 
she had said? Everything was over between 
us. 


32 


and Other Stories* 

And then all at once my dream came back to 
me with startling vividness. 

Again I saw her seated in her carriage with 
the man of her choice, looking like a little 
queen in her costly garments. Was it for this 
she had given me back my love and reclaimed 
her own? “Come to-morrow at five, and I shall 
explain. ,, “Explain!” What explanation was 
there for her to make? That she had weighed 
my love in the balance — together with his gold 
— and had found it wanting? “To-morrow at 
five” — an eternity until then. It was now ten in 
the evening; nineteen weary hours to be passed 
— somehow. 

In vain I tried to read; her face came be- 
tween me and the pages of the brief I had 
attempted to scan. Then I resolved to write to 
those at home. “My dear mother,” I began, 
“I have a few moments to spare, and so hasten 
to answer your letter of the twenty-fifth inst. 
I am, of course, very busy, but spend much of 
my leisure time with — ” Ah, with whom? 
No, I cannot write to-night without betraying 
something of my misery, I thought, and tore 
the paper into a hundred pieces. 

And then I drew from my pocket a little pho- 
tograph, and gazed long and lovingly on the 
pictured face of a “sw T eet girl graduate.” How 
well I remembered the evening she had given 
it to me; that day she had promised to be my 
w ife. How pretty she had looked then — the 
lamplight falling on her golden hair, and on 
the blue gow T n she wore. Her gray eyes had 
been wet with tears — tears of joy, she told me. 

33 


One Woman's Fate 


But now where was the love which was to 
last through all eternity? Who had broken the 
bond that bound us together? 

How long I sat there I never knew before 
sleep, kind, dreamless sleep, gave me rest. 

It was eight o’clock when I awoke next 
morning, and for a moment forgetting all tha| 
had passed, was surprised to find myself dressed 
and sitting in my arm chair. Then my eye fell 
upon that hateful yellow paper, and remember- 
ing all, I stooped to pick up the little photo- 
graph which had fallen on the floor beside me. 

It was a long, dreary day at my place of busi- 
ness, and my little office boy glanced reproach- 
fully at me, when more than once I reprimanded 
him severely for some trifling offense. 

Four o’clock, at last ! 

I started up, and donned my hat and over- 
coat. In sixty minutes now I should know all 
— the whole truth. 

It still lacked five minutes to the appointed 
hour when I reached West Seventy-sixth 
Street, and rang the bell of No. — . 

“Yes, Miss Marvin was at home,” the maid 
assured me, and I went into the pretty draw- 
ing-room, my heart growing heavier with every 
step. 

The portieres at the further end of the room 
parted, and Daisy came toward me, a heavenly 
smile on her charming face. 

“I heard your voice, Jack, and didn’t wait 
for you to be announced. How are you, dear?” 

She said it so simply, so naturally, expecting 
no doubt, a warmer welcome than the stiff hand- 
34 


and Other Stories* 


shake I gave her, I turned and looked out of 
the window, waiting for her to speak. 

She glanced curiously at me for a moment, 
then, noting, perhaps, the look of misery on my 
face, she asked softly: “What is it, Jack? 
Your mother — she is not ill? * 

“My mother is quite well, thank you," I an- 
swered coldly. 

How could she think of even my mother now? 

“Some business, then? Come, sit here by me 
and explain all about it. Pll try to under 
stand,” with a little coaxing pat on my arm. 

“Explain l” That word again! It roused 
me to speech. “That is why I am here — to 
have you explain!” I began suddenly. “That 
is to be your pleasure, not mine, certainly,” I 
added, with an ill-concealed sneer. 

“I — -explain — Jack? Why, what do you 
mean?” she asked, her eyes wide with wonder. 

“What do I mean, indeed! What do you 
mean, rather?” I retorted, now wholly indig- 
nant. 

“I mean nothing, and I must ask you to be 
more explicit,” she returned quietly, with gen- 
tle dignity. 

“Nothing! You call it 4 nothing’ to become 
engaged to a fellow — who loves you — and then 
to throw him over for wealth and a fine posi- 
tion? You think it is ‘nothing’ to ” 

“Throw a fellow over — wealth — position — ” 
she interrupted, repeating my words in a dazed 
sort of way. 

“ Well, -were those not your reasons for your 
treatment of me?” I demanded, and, catching 
35 


One Woman's Fate 

her suddenly by the arm, I turned her face to 
me. 

“Tell me/' I whispered hoarsely, “was it 
for him?” 

A little pause, then; “Jack! You are cruel — 
cruel!” and I heard a half -stifled sob. It gave 
me courage to ask the next question. 

“ Daisy,, my sweet, are you sorry you sent me 
that telegram? Didn’t you know it would 
almost break my heart? ’ I was seated beside 
her on the divan now, and my arm was near, 
very near her slender waist. 

“What telegram? I — never — sent — you — a 
— telegram — in — all — my life,” she said, slow- 
ly but perfectly distinctly. 

“Daisy! Do you know what you are say- 
ing?” I asked breathlessly. 

“Of course I do, and I’ll repeat it: I never 
sent you a telegram in my life.” 

“Then what is the meaning of this?” I ex- 
claimed, drawing the dispatch from my pocket 
and handing it to her. She read it through, 
and gave it back to me. 

“You believed it was from me? Oh, Jack! 
You know it wasn’t.” 

One look into those clear gray eyes, and I was 
content. 

“Forgive me!” I whispered, pressing my lips 
to hers. “I shall never doubt you again.” 

“But I should like to know who really did 
esnd it,” I said, after a pause. 

“Ha! Ha! Wouldn’t you, though?” came 
in triumphant accents from the adjoining room, 
startling us both; and again the portieres 
36 


an 4 Other Stories* 


parted, this time to disclose a boy some fifteen 
years of age — my future brother-in-law. Like 
lightning it flashed across our minds that he 
was the culprit, and, starting up, I hurried 
toward him. But the youthful offender was 
too quick for me, and darted up the stairs with 
a war-whoop of exultation. 

i ‘Hooray !” he shouted from on high, as Daisy 
and I stood threateningly below “Hooray! 
I caught you, Jack! April fool!” 

It was the first of April. 


37 


One Woman's Fate 


HIS MESSENGER. 

I had finished my solitary Christmas dinner 
and stood staring moodily out of the hotel win- 
dow, at the endless procession of carriages pass- 
ing on Fifth Avenue, when, all at once, I 
seemed to again hear the glorious voice I had 
heard at the morning service proclaim the old 
sweet tidings of peace and joy. Then with a 
strange feeling of loneliness there came to me 
a longing to share my good fortune with 
others less fortunate than I — a desire to render 
some service to the needy. 

I was staying at the Holland House, having 
been summoned by my lawyers to New York 
to hear read the “last will and testament ” of 
my late uncle, Charles Spencer, who, having 
been a childless widower, had kindly endowed 
me, his next of kin, with all his worldly goods, 
and with what was of still more value to me — 
a struggling barrister — his worldly gold. With 
a new and pleasant sensation of being able to 
afford any luxury I craved, I turned from the 
window, and donned my heavy fur-lined coat 
with a sigh of satisfaction. Taking up my hat, 
I passed quickly out into the street, and scarcely 
realizing the direction I had involuntarily 
taken, I reached Madison Square. 

Just a little abashed by the uncertainty of 
38 


and Other Stories* 


my mission, I stood for a few moments in front 
of the Hoffman House, scanning with unusual 
curiosity the faces of the passersby, but seeing 
no one apparently in need of alms. 

“Please, sir, would you give me a few pen- 
nies?” 

It was the usual request of the street urchin, 
close at my elbow, but in this voice there was 
such refinement, such pathetic sweetness that I 
turned toward the speaker. Such a sad little 
face ! Such great, mournful eyes looking fear- 
lessly up into mine, sending a wave of memo- 
ries surging through my heart by their likeness 
to those other eyes I had known and loved long 
ago. “Yes, my boy, I’ll give you some pen- 
nies,” I answered readily, and the wistful face 
brightened perceptibly in the lamplight. 
“Want to get a good Crhistmas dinner, eh?” 
I added, smiling down at him. 

“Oh, no, sir, it’s not for that. But you see 
my mother’s sick; too sick to give music les- 
sons now. She makes me go to school, and she 
won’t let me beg; she wouldn’t like it if she 
knew I asked you for the pennies. But then, 
sir,” and here the lad’s eyes left my face for a 
moment, and he glanced eagerly at the bright 
half-dollar I held between my fingers; “it’s 
Christmas, you know, and — and she’s had 
nothing to eat all day, so I asked you first for 
the money, because” — the cold little fingers 

were nervously interlaced — “because ” 

“Don’t be afraid, my little man. Tell me 
why you asked me ‘first.’ ” 

“Because, sir, when I saw you, you looked 
39 


One Woman's Fate 


like a picture mother has at home. She says it 
is some one she knew when she was a girl, and 
rich, and she carries it with her always. I was 
named for him, and — but — oh, sir, you looked 
so sort of kind that I asked you to help me,” 
finished the child, a little quiver in his voice. 

Clearly here was my wished-for opportunity; 
here was '‘some good to be done.” 

Slipping the half-dollar into the boy’s hand, 
I cut short his delighted thanks by closing my 
fingers tightly over his own, as I led him 
across the crowded thoroughfare. 

Ten minutes later we were seated at a table 
in a quiet corner of Dorlon’s oyster house, and 
I had ordered a dinner that made the blue eyes 
glisten with tears of joy. “How good you are, 
sir,” he half whispered, leaning toward me, 
when a big bowl of hot soup had sent a little 
color to the tiny, pinched face. “What will 
mother say? Could I — might I save some of it 
for her? She’s all alone, now father’s gone, and 
I guess she’s waiting for me, and wondering 
where I am.” 

“That’ll be all right, my boy,” said I, feel- 
ing happier than I had felt in years. “Eat all 
you want, and ‘mother’ shall have as much 
more. ’ * 

I had taken a decided liking to the gentle- 
manly little fellow, and admiring his unselfish 
thoughtfulness, had resolved to take him home, 
see what could be done to help the sick mother, 
and if possible catch a glimpse of the picture 
which had so strangely drawn the little chap 
to me. 


40 


and Other Stories* 


“Now,” said I presently, drawing out a 
notebook and pencil, “tell me your name, and 
where you live, and we will order a Christmas 
dinner that will make ‘mother’ well.” 

“I live at 300 West Thirty-first Street, 
answered the boy quickly; “and my name is 
Gerald Spencer Wentworth.” 

I started! It was my own name, Gerald 
Spencer; — and she, the poor, hungry mother, 
was the woman I had loved all my life, though 
a richer man than I had ever hoped to be had 
become her husband. “My little sweetheart,” 
as I had so often called her, “my little love,” 
and I had found her at last. This boy, then, 
was hers ! That photograph, mine ! It was the 
one thing she had kept, when hastened into a 
marriage with a man who had promised 
to reform, for her sake, and leave drink alone 

It was to this, then, that he had dragged her; 
lower and lower, to poverty, almost starvation. 
My proud little darling ! Too proud to ask help 
of the friends who had known her before her 
marriage. The pencil had dropped from my 
trembling fingers, as I sat staring at the child 
before me, seeing in the boy’s face her own 
image; her sweet soul shining through his 
eyes. 

Hastily pulling myself together lest the boy 
should notice my emotion, I wrote the name 
and address in full, and adding a couple of bot- 
tles of rare old port to the other order, I sur- 
prised the waiter with a fee that made him 
promise to “see to it at once, sir, and have it 
sent.” 


41 


One Woman's Fate 


Hailing a hansom which was passing as we 
left the restaurant I told the driver where to 
go, bidding him drive as rapidly as possible; 
then, concluding it was time to explain matters 
to my namesake, who was almost speechless 
with amazement, I passed my arm around the 
little fellow and pressed him closely to me. 

“Gerald,” said I, “you were a dear boy to 
find me, and I thank you.” 

The blue eyes were swiftly raised to mine, 
then the dark head was pressed against my 
shoulder, with a quick sigh. 

“Your mother and I were very old friends — 
very dear friends, once. Gerald, it was my 
picture you saw, and ” 

“Why — why,” interrupted the boy ex- 
citedly, “then you are my Uncle Gerald, and 
I was named for you. Oh, goody!” he cried, 
grasping my hand in both his own. “Mother 
will be so glad. Do you know” — nestling once 
more against my willing arm, “every night, 
after she says her prayers, mother kisses your 
picture, and asks God to bless you and keep 
you, and sometimes — sometimes she cries, and 
when I ask her why, she says you are the one 
she loves best on earth, next to me, and that 
she’ll never see you again. But now she will, 
won’t she, Uncle Gerald? I guess God felt 
sorry that she cried, and sent me to find you.” 

I could not answer. The child’s faith was 
stronger than my own had been or than hers, 
and a sob rose to my throat and choked back 
the words I would say. 

“Father was drowned at sea,” went on the 
42 


and Other 5tonej 


boy, answering, all unconsciously, the question 
I could not ask. ‘ He was going to England 
to make lots of money for us, and he ne\er 
came back. I was little then, and don’t remem- 
ber much about it, but they told mother” — his 
voice sank to a whisper — “they told her that he 
had drank too much wine, and didn’t know 
what he was doing when he jumped overboard. 
Mother cried lots, and kept looking at your 
picture, and once I heard her say, very low : 
‘Too late, too late! He has forgotten me.’ Did 
you, Uncle Gerald? Oh, we’re home.’* 

The hansom had stopped before a large, clean- 
looking tenement, and telling the driver to 
wait, I followed Gerald up two flights of long 
stairs and halted before a door in the front of 
the house. 

“Let me go in first, and we’ll s’prise her, 1 -* 
whispered my companion, and he opened the 
door noiselessly. 

The dim flicker of a candle cast a streak of 
light into the hall and I heard the voice of my 
love. 

“Gerald? Is it you, darling? How late you 
are. Did you stay and take supper with blind 
Andy?” 

“No, mother, not with Andy; and oh! I x ve 
got a lovely s’prise for you, and you’ll be so 
happy.” 

“Shall I be ‘so happy,’ dear? Well, let me 
have it now — for I want to be happy, oh, so 
badly.” 

I could wait no longer. Pushing the door 
open ever so gently I stepped into the room. 

43 


One Woman's Fate 

A moment’s silence as her e} r es met mine, 
then a low bursting sob that shook her slender 
frame; and as I caught my fainting darling in 
my arms once again I heard the words “Glory 
to God in the highest and on earth peace, good 
will toward men.” 


44 


and Other Stories* 


A LAST BEQUEST. 

“Paris, May 16, 1893. 

“My Dear Tom: Of course you received 
my cable from Havre, when we landed, but now 
here we are in Paris, and everything looks cou- 
leur de rose to ‘yours truly’ at present. 

“Say, old man, you’ve crossed the ocean half 
a dozen times, I know : did it ever occur to you 
to think how much better you can get to know 
a girl in one week on board ship than in a sea- 
son in town? There’s something — can’t quite 
describe it — that makes a fellow feel better 
acquainted with the people around him in gen- 
eral, and some in particular, when you know 
you’re all together on the mighty deep, with 
nothing but a few slender timbers, practically, 
and a bit of clever engineering to keep you 
all from the Great Unknown. 

“Did I tell you before I left of whom our 
party was- finally to consist? No; I ’m sure I 
did not. There were the Vernons — Jack Ver- 
non, you know — in our class at Harvard — mar- 
ried little Miss Mason last year ; Bob Keating, 
his fiancee , a Miss Reynolds, and her mother, 
who, by the w T ay, is a very chic little widow. 
Old Hastings, who joined us at the last mo- # 
ment, seems tremendously epris in that quarter. 

“Then, last, but by no means least, there is 
45 


One Woman's Fate 

the little girl with whom I have — or think I 
have — become so well acquainted, and her old 
sheepdog of an aunt, who scarcely lets the girl 
move from her side — worse luck ! 

“But we have managed to evade the old per- 
son once in a while, and the consequence is I 
am now, at this moment, desperately, madly 
in love with the dearest little girl who ever 
wore a 2A shoe (I know the number well, you 
see, as it has frequently been my pleasure to 
arrange the refractory laces of her little Oxford 
ties. ) I can almost see you as you read all thi3, 
old man, sitting by the window, possibly, with 
your latest medical book, probably, and laugh- 
ing certainly at my confession. I know what 
you are thinking; it is what you would say if 
I were there to hear it c How many times is 
this, Don?” Then you will proceed to enumer- 
ate mes petites affaires . But this is the first 
time I have really been in love, Tom; the oth- 
ers, even Eleanore, cannot be named in the 
same breath with Kathleen — Miss Kevins. 
There ! The name’s out, and I meant to keep 
you i a suspense till the last. 

“Well, from our various conversations, I 
learned that she is an orphan, of considerable 
means, that she lives with her aunt, and that 
she is en route to visit her maternal grand- 
father in England. Miss Nevins expects to 
return home in September, so I have decided to 
stay over until then, in order to make the 
acquaintance of my uncle in Scotland, the 
chieftain of our clan. Then we can cross 
together again, and they might feel easier, 
46 


and Other Stories* 


you know, old chap, to have a man they know 
on board. The only trouble now is that I don’t 
believe she cares a rap about me. 

“Sometimes I think she may in time — that 
she does even — then something occurs to make 
me change my mind. Once, for instance, when 
I had been telling her how I wished our voyage 
together might never end — to see how she would 
take it — and she blushed divinely, I began to 
hope; then some cad of an officer came up, and 
she left me, quite too willingly, I thought, to 
promenade with him. 

“But now we are all at the Continental, and 
twice I have had the honor of escorting her, 
with the aunt, bien entendu , to the Odeon and 
once to the opera. 

“She — Miss Nevins — speaks French with 
such a pretty little accent that it is a pleasure 
to talk it with her, and we carry on needlessly 
long conversations in that language, with 
w T hich ‘the aunt’ is unacquainted. 

“They seem to be doing a great deal of shop- 
ping here, and spend a good quarter of every 
day ‘fitting on’ frocks and things. Yesterday 
I sat in a miserable jiaci'e from two P.M. till 
nearly four, while ‘Milady’ honored M. Doucet 
w ith a call. That was my own fault, however. 
I tell you all this, old fellow, because I know 
what a kindly interest you take in your good- 
for-nothing friend ; and it’s such a relief, some- 
times, to unburden one’s mind of the happiest 
as well as of the most wretched details of life. 
Let me say, en somme, that this time I am in 
earnest, and I hope, when next I write, to be 
47 


One Woman's Fate 

able to tell you that Kathleen has consented to 
be my wife. By the b} 7 e, I met my aunt, Mrs. 
Gray, and those two pretty daughters of hers, 
driving in the Bois this morning. 

“My cousin Eleanore looks lovelier than 
ever, and the sight of her brought back the 
past very vividly — but now that I’ve seen 
Kathleen, I know it was all for the best. Still 
I shall call at their hotel to-morrow. 

“Write as usual to my bankers, Drexel, Har- 
jes, Boulevard Haussmann ; they will forward 
my mail, and I may stay some time in Eng- 
land, if all goes well. 

“Love to the Pater when you see him, and 
‘ be good to yourself. ’ 

“As ever, yours, 

“Donald. 

“To Thomas Keith, Esq., M.D.” 


Cablegram from Thomas Keith, M.D., New 
York, to Donald Cameron, Esq., care Drexel, 
Harjes & Co., Paris: 

“May 17, 1893. 

“Your father died this morning. Apoplexy. 
Will write to-day.” 


“New York, May 17, 1893. 

“My Dear Old Don: Needless for me to 
say how shocked and grieved I was by your 
father’s death, or how sorry I am to be the one 
to impart the sad news to you. I was with him 
at the end, and his last words were for you, 
48 


and Other Stories* 

when he regained consciousness, and his power 
of speech for a time. 

“As I bent over him he whispered: ‘Tell 
Donald my dearest wish has been for him to 
marry Eleanore. She will make him happy. 
Ask him to forgive her impulsiveness, for my 
sake.’ There was something else, so low that 
I could not hear it; then all was over,, and 
so peacefully, Don. 

“Your sister and brother both arrived to-day, 
and I will cable you the hour fixed for the ser- 
vices. 

“A word of advice, Don, my boy, from an 
old friend. 

“Don’t make too much of that little differ- 
ence between Miss Gray and yourself. She did 
not understand you, that was all; and you must 
confess you were a little bit brusque with her. 
I have an idea she is sorry she broke off the 
engagement so hastily. What do you think 
about it, eh? 

“Try and see her when you go to Paris, for 
your father’s sake as well as for your own, and 
I feel sure you will be glad in the end. 

“Yours ever, Tom. 


“Cameron Crags, Lasswade, Scotland, 
“June 30, 1893. 

“Dear Old Tom: Except for the hasty 
note in answer to yours of May 17th, I have 
neglected you shamefully. 

“Our letters crossed each other, and you will 
49 


One Woman's Fate 


be wondering why yon do not hear something 
further of my plans and of that little girl. 

“Well, old man, the game’s up with me now, 
and I may as well make a clean breast of the 
whole thing to you. 

“Was it fate, Tom, that made me leave home 
just three weeks too soon? or that made me 
know Kathleen Nevins before I had seen Elea- 
nore again? If so, it was a hard, cruel fate, 
for it has ruined my life. Only a few hours 
before your letter reached me, I offered my 
heart and hand to Miss Nevins, and — she 
refused them. 

“I think I must have been blind not to see 
all along what is now so plain to me : that she 
not only does not care for me, but she does love 
— another. 

“In fact, she is to be married, early in the 
autumn, to the luckiest man on earth, it seems 
to me. They are getting her tromsseau now. 
She — bless her sweet, innocent heart — never 
dreamed that I loved her, and made me promise 
that we should always be friends. 

“Friends, Tom, friends, when even now she 
is all the world to me. 

“Then I came to Scotland, and am com- 
pletely charmed both with our gallant chief 
and our ancestral home. And bye the by, old 
chap, I shall want you to be my best man some 
time in November. 

“Aunt Julia and the girls are visiting our 
uncle, too, and — well, I remembered my father’s 
last request, and Eleanore has forgiven me. 
Please God, I shall make her happy. 

50 


and Other Stones* 


“I know my little secret is as safe with you, 
Tom, as it is with me; and now what I’ve got 
to do is to burn my ships behind me — all save 
one; then sail in that, with everything set, into 
another port, with Eleanore as captain of the 
craft and I as mate. 

“Don. 


51 


One Woman's Fate 


I, DORIS LANE. 

I. 

“Grantley Grange, May 21, 1891. 

“My dearest Girl/’ the letter read, “we are 
giving a dance on my birthday, the twentieth 
of next month, and I want you to come on the 
twelfth and stay a fortnight with us. Father 
and the boys are anxious to know you, and it 
seems so very long since last I saw you. Let 
me hear from you at once, and say you will 
come. 

“Lovingly your friend, 

“Clare Trevillion.” 

We — father, mother, my sister Anna and I 
— were seated at breakfast one lovely spring 
morning, when the first post brought me this 
note from my boarding school “chum.” 

“Oh, how jolly,” I exclaimed. “Mother, 
father, listen — ” and I read the letter aloud. 

“Well, my dear,” said father, when I had fin- 
ished and was looking flushed and expectant 
from one to the other — “and do you want to 
go?” 

‘ 4 Do— I — want — to — go?’ ’ I repeated — then 
stopped, for a vision of my present wardrobe 


and Other Stories* 


had flashed across my mind. My Sunday gown 
of dark- brown silk, my old blue serge, two white 
muslins which had seen better days, but were 
still dignified by the name of “dinner gowns,” 
and some cotton frocks rather the worse for 
wear and continual washing did not present a 
very brilliant array for a visit of a fortnight 
and a dance. Mother read my thoughts, for 
she said quickly : “ We can easily arrange about 
some new gowns before then, my daughter, so 
don’t worry about your clothes.” 

When I realized that I was actually to be 
allowed to go, I rushed off to answer Clare’s 
invitation most enthusiastically. 

An only daughter of a wealthy baronet, Sir 
Richard Trevillion, and the petted “little sis- 
ter” of two big teasing brothers, Clare’s life 
was indeed a happy one; but for all the luxury 
which surrounded her she was much to be pit- 
ied, for in her early childhood she had been 
deprived through death of that most precious of 
earthly blessings — a mother’s love. 

My father was vicar of the little town of 
Steyning, in Sussex, and we lived in a quiet, 
primitive way, as best suited our means. On 
the day appointed by Clare, I started on my 
journey, feeling very important, with a brand 
new box from town, on which the letters “D. 
L.” appeared in fiery red. The last fortnight 
had seemed like a dream to me, and I, Doris 
Lane, had become the proud possessor of “real 
tailor-made gowns,” dainty frocks, new hats, 
gloves, ribbons, and various trifles which de- 
light the girlish heart. 


One Woman's Fate 

Hatherleigh was in Devon, and about four 
hours by rail from home, but it seemed an incredi- 
bly short time before the guard touched me on the 
shoulder and said respectfully “Best wake up, 
Miss, we be halmost there.” I started up at 
once, and had only time to smooth back my 
hair and draw on my gloves, when we stopped 
at a pretty country station, and the guard 
returned to help me with my wraps. Another 
moment and I stood alone on the platform, 
grasping my umbrella and wishing some one 
would come. 

Just then a voice behind me asked: “Is this 
Miss Lane?” 

I turned quickly, and saw a young man, who 
raised his hat politely, as I answered: “Yes; 
and you?” hesitating for an instant. 

“Norman Trevillion,” he said, with a smile. 

“Clare has a cold which keeps her confined 
to the house, or she would have been here with 
me. This way, please ; W ilson will see to your 
luggage.” 

A dog cart stood waiting. “Clare wanted 
to send the brougham to meet you,” said my 
escort, as he seated himself beside me, and took 
the reins, “but I insisted that this trap would 
be pleasanter after your dusty ride. Besides,” 
touching the chestnut lightly with the whip, 
“I wanted to have the pleasure of driving you 
myself.” 

I looked up in surprise. 

“Why did he say that,” thought I, “when 
he never saw me before in his life;” but never- 
theless, I made a polite acknowledgment of his 
54 


and Other Stories. 

favor, then, during the conversation which fol- 
lowed, I stole furtive glances at my new 
acquaintance. Certainly Captain Trevillion, 
of Her Majesty’s Eleventh Hussars, was an 
exceedingly handsome man. He was tall and 
had dark hair brushed back from a broad fore- 
head, a handsome mouth, shaded by a small, 
well-trimmed mustache, and eyes which re- 
vealed more than perhaps he guessed of his 
real inner self. 

At last, as we turned in through a large gate 
to a long shady avenue of the park, Captain 
Trevillion said, pointing with his whip to a 
handsome residence at some distance: “There, 
Miss Lane, is Grantley Grange; let me be the 
first to welcome you.” 

4 4 Thank you. Oh ! how lovely it is, ” I replied, 
as I looked at the handsome house in admira- 
tion. 

When we reached the door I saw Clare come 
running through the hall, and heard her 
exclaim: “Oh, father, here she is.” 

She was followed more slowly by a fine-look- 
ing old man, with gray hair and beard, and the 
kindest voice in the world, who said: 4 4 And 
she is very welcome, my dear.” Indeed, my 
reception was as cordial as I could have 
wished, and after a cup of tea in the morning 
room, Clare took me up to the pretty bedroom 
I was to occupy. 

“There is only my sitting room between us,” 
she explained. “I thought it would be more 
fun to be near each other; it’s such ages since I 
have seen you,” with a hug; “Beatrice Carle- 
55 


One Woman's Fate 


ton is here, too,” Clare continued, when I had 
returned her embrace. 4 ‘She is a sort of far-off 
cousin of ours, you know.” Then, as a neat, 
middle-aged woman came to the door, “This is 
Lawson, Doris,” she said; “she has taken care 
of me since I was a tiny baby, and she will 
wait on you, too, while you are here. Dinner 
is at eight, so I shall leave you to take a little 
rest before you dress,” and with a hasty kiss 
she left the room. 

Lawson asked for the key of my portmanteau, 
then proceeded to unpack the things, while I, 
in a dainty blue negligee , lay on the couch, 
thinking how pleasant and novel was the sen- 
sation of being waited on by a real “lady’s 
maid.” 

When Clare returned, a few minutes before 
eight, I was dressed and waiting for her. “How 
sweet you look, Doris,” was her exclamation, 
as we descended the broad stairs; “I never saw 
you look so well before.” 

I laughed, and slipped my hand lovingly 
through her arm. I felt pleased with my 
appearance, for the simple white silk gown, 
with its low-cut bodice and huge puff sleeves, 
was certainly vastly becoming. As we entered 
the drawing-room by one door, a girl came 
slowly in by another, followed by a young man. 

“Do behave, Cecil,” she was saying, laugh- 
ingly, as they entered, and as she stood for an 
instant under the brilliantly lighted chandelier, 
while Clare introduced us, I thought Miss 
Carleton simply lovely. She was tall and 
graceful; dark hair, worn in a loose knot at the 


and Other Stories* 


back of a queenly little head, and lying in lit- 
tle curls upon the white forehead, framed a face 
of exquisite beauty. Her chief charm, how- 
ever, was in her eyes, which were dark, and 
had in them a soft dreaminess that completely 
fascinated me. 

Miss Carleton held out her hand. “I am so 
glad to meet you, Miss Lane,” she said. 

Clare presented the young man to me, as “my 
younger brother, Cecil.” Sir Richard took me 
in to dinner that night, and on my other side 
sat Captain Trevillion, who, with his brother, 
kept up a lively conversation until Clare gave 
us the signal to leave the table. The evening 
seemed very short, and passed very pleasantly. 
At Clare’s request I sang several songs, when 
Captain Trevillion, who had been standing by 
the piano, urged me to stop, saying that other- 
wise I would not rest well after my tedious 
journey. “But some other time you will let 
me hear you again, won’t you?” he asked, as 
he held the door open for me to pass. 

“If you like,” I answered. 

A week passed all too rapidly, for Sir Rich- 
ard and his family were untiring in their efforts 
to entertain their guests. 

The twentieth arrived at length, and was a 
bright, lovely day. The afternoon train brought 
a number of guests from town for the dance, 
and I was more excited than I cared to confess. 
All day I had been somewhat embarrassed by 
Captain Trevillion’s attentions. At home no 
one had ever been so kind to me, or so careful 
of my comfort, and somehow I never lifted my 
57 


One Woman's Fate 

eyes when he was near me without meeting his 
gaze. Once, I remember, I blushed vividly at the 
encounter, whereupon he quickly turned away. 
I could not account for the sudden quickening 
of my pulses whenever he addressed me, or the 
gladness I felt when he entered the room. 
“What is it?” I asked myself, but found no 
answer to my question. 

As I stood before the white and gold cheval 
glass in my room that evening, when Lawson’s 
skillful fingers had made me look my best, and 
Lawson had pronounced me “Just beautiful, 
Miss,” it occurred to me for the first time that 
I really was quite pretty. My ball gown of 
white tulle was daintily embroidered with pink 
rosebuds ; the decollete bodice trimmed with a 
spray of the same delicate blossoms. A tiny 
wreath in my hair, held in place by mother’s 
last gift to me — a little star of pearls — long 
white gloves, and pretty satin slippers, with my 
first “Louis” heels, completed my toilette. 
Masses of golden hair crowning a small, shapely 
head^ well-poised upon a full round throat, and 
shoulders of marble white, great blue eyes, still 
childishly innocent, shaded by long, curling 
lashes a nose slightly retrousse; a mouth a tri- 
fle too large, perhaps, for beauty, but the better 
revealing two rows of even, white teeth, and a 
dimple in either cheek, was what I saw reflected 
in the glass. I drew on one long glove with a 
happy sigh, and wished with all my heart that 
the dear ones at home could see me. 

At that moment Lawson returned, and hand- 
ing me a beautiful bouquet of pink roses, said: 

58 


ancJ Other Stories* 


‘‘With Captain Trevillion’s compliments, Miss, 
oh, Miss, they do look just lovely with your 
gown !” 

“How very kind of him,” I murmured, bury- 
ing my face in the flowers, to hide from the 
maid’s scrutiny the flush which had arisen, 
unbidden, to my cheeks. 

When I entered the ballroom several of the 
guests had already arrived, but the dancing had 
not yet begun. Clare, looking bewitchingly 
pretty in a simple frock of light blue and sil- 
ver, was talking, as I entered, to a tall, good- 
looking man, whom she presented to me, with 
a charming blush, as “Mr. Westinghouse.” 
Miss Carleton, evidently much to Cecil’s dis- 
comfiture, was laughing and chatting gayly to 
a crowd of surrounding admirers, and looking 
lovely in an exquisite gown of pale green and 
gold. Captain Trevillion, who had been stand- 
ing near her, crossed the room to where I stood 
with Clare. 

“May I have the first dance, Miss Lane?” he 
asked, taking the card I held. 

I assented, and he added, laughing: “Ah! I 
am going to take advantage of this chance 
while I can. A little later you won’t have a 
dance to spare.” 

When he returned my card, I saw that the 
initials “N. G. T.” were four times inscribed 
thereon. 

“How awfully well that frock suits you,” he 
said, after a moment’s pause, “and how good 
of you to carry my flowers.” 

“It was so very kind of you to think of me.” 

59 


One Woman's Fate 


“Kind to think of you?” he repeated, inter- 
rupting me, and looking steadily at me. “ Why, 
child, if you could only guess how often I — ” 
he broke off suddenly, and offered me his arm. 

My card was soon filled, and when the open- 
ing bars of music were played, Captain Trevil- 
lion and I were the first couple on the floor. It 
was a waltz, and I had never before danced 
with any one whose step suited mine so well. 
Neither of us spoke. I knew that I was too 
near heaven to converse on the commonplace 
things of earth. 

The fourth dance was a quadrille, and be- 
longed to Captain Trevillion. Not caring to 
dance we went into the little conservatory 
adjoining the ballroom. We talked very little. 
I felt strangely confused, and leaned back on 
the divan, not trying to entertain my compan- 
ion, while Captain Trevillion, after several 
attempts at conversation, sat idly opening and 
shutting my white fan. 

Cecil, sauntering through the shrubbery, 
which half filled the conservatory, came upon 
us unawares. “Tired, little girl?” he asked, 
in a pleasantly familiar tone, which he often 
used to me now. We were fast friends, Cecil 
and I, already calling each other by our Chris- 
tian names. “Not very, dear old boy,” I an- 
swered gayly, catching his tone. A shade of 
annoyance passed over Captain Trevillion’s 
face, as Cecil seated himself beside me. 

“By Jove, Norman,” Cecil exclaimed, “I 
believe you were half asleep when I came up, 
and Doris looked bored to death. “Here,” tak- 
60 


and Other Stories* 


i ng my fan from his brother’s hand, “my dance 
comes next, so you may as well leave her with 
me now, like a good chap.” 

Without a word Captain Trevillion rose and 
giving me a most dignified bow walked slowly 
into the ballroom. 

“Oh, Cecil, how horrid of you!” I cried. 
“Now you have offended him!” Cecil looked 
amused. “Oh, no, I haven’t; he’s always off in 
the clouds and wants some one to bring him 
back to earth. Jove! Miss Allison can do it;” 
and in answer to my look of inquiry he ex- 
claimed: “Miss Allison — she’s his fiancee, you 
know. Stunning girl from America — lives in 
New York, I think — heaps of money — old man 
in some railroad there. She’s a beauty, if you 
like — lots of ‘go’ and all that, you know; and 
they’re awfully broken up on each other. Gad ! 
you should see her ride; but, I say, what’s the 
matter with you? You look ghastly. Have a 
glass of water — an ice?” 

“It’s only the heat,” I said, fighting off the 
faintness fast creeping over me. “Yes, do get 
me an ice.” 

Left alone, I buried my face in my hands, 
and Cecil’s words came back to me, as I rocked 
myself to and fro on the cushioned divan. 
“His — fiancee ,” I whispered, “and — he — loves 
— her — she — will — be — his — wife.” I shud- 
dered at the thought, but told myself I did not 
care. Ah! why, then, did the sobs rise in my 
throat, and my heart suddenly seem turned to 
stone? Hearing footsteps approaching, and not 
wanting to see Cecil again until I could control 


One Woman's Fate 


my emotions, I caught up a wrap lying near, 
and hurried out on the terrace, the footsteps 
still in pursuit. Almost blinded by my tears, 
and fearing to be found by my next partner, I 
began to run, when catching my heel in a ruf- 
fle, as I started down the steps, I fell to the 
ground. I struggled to my feet, but a cry burst 
from my lips as a twinge of agony made it evi- 
dent to me that I had twisted my ankle; and 
again the faintness nearly overpowered me. 
Very indistinctly I heard the footsteps now 
close behind me, then a low exclamation, and, 
as I swayed slightly backward, some one 
caught me tenderly in his arms and I knew no 
more. 


II. 

Slowly I regained consciousness and opened 
my eyes, only to close them again with a happy 
feeling of content, for I was lying in Norman’s 
arms, and heard him whisper passionately: 

“Doris, my love, my darling! Speak to me. 
Open those sweet eyes and let me tell you how 
I love you!” 

And, I remembering only that I was with 
him, murmured: “Norman — dearest!” while 
his kisses fell fast on my face. 

Then, in the midst of my new-found happi- 
ness, with his arms still around me, and his 
voice calling me by all the endearing terms of 
love — suddenly those other words — Cecil’s — 
came to my mind, crushing all my joy; for, 
62 


and Other Stories* 

even though I knew he belonged to another, I 
loved him — I, Doris Lane!” 

4 4 How can you ! Oh, how dare you !” I cried, 
trying to break from his encircling arms; but 
he held me fast. 

“How dare I love you?” he asked laugh- 
ingly. “Ah, little one, I scarcely know myself, 
how I dared hope for your love in return. But 
who could know you, dear, and not love you? 
Why, Doris, what is it? Are you in pain — are 
you hurt?” for without a moment’s warning I 
had burst into tears, and was pushing him from 
me with all my small strength. 

4 4 Oh, my ankle!” I moaned miserably, and 
quietly lifting me from the ground, Norman 
carried me into the house. At the door we met 
Cecil, who was evidently still searching for me. 

4 4 Miss Lane has hurt her foot,” said Captain 
Trevillion quickly. 4 4 Find Clare and send her 
here.” 

Then he turned into the library, laid me 
gently or the sofa and took my hand in his. 

4 4 Poor little girl!” he said softly, “how did it 
happen? Was it from Cecil that you were 
running when you fell?” and I had never heard 
him speak so sharply before. 

4 4 Oh, indeed, no!” I began hastily. But just 
then Clare entered the room, followed by Cecil. 

4 4 Oh, Doris, what is it?” exclaimed Clare. 
4 4 What has happened?” 

Cecil, who knew I would not care to be ques- 
tioned just then, interrupted her. 4 4 She has 
sprained her ankle, I should imagine, and the 
best place for her is in her room, where she can 
G3 


One Woman's Fate 

be made more comfortable,” he said shortly, 
then raised me carefully from the sofa. I saw 
Captain Trevillion grow white to the very lips 
and he made a half-gesture as if to take me 
from Cecil, but as I slipped one arm around 
Cecil’s neck when he said ‘Hold on to me, Doris 
— you’ll feel steadier,” Norman drew back and 
I heard him order that one of the grooms should 
be sent at once for the doctor. 

“I’m awfully sorry , Doris, ” whispered Cecil, 
as he ascended the stairs. ‘ ‘ Where in the world 
did you go to when 1 left you to go for that 
ice?” 

“I felt so faint,” I answered, “that I went 
out on the terrace to get some air, and quite for- 
got those steps.” Then, seeing a questioning 
look in his eyes, I added: “Your brother must 
have been quite near, for he was there when I 
recovered consciousness. ’ ’ 

The doctor arrived very soon, and found me 
comfortably arranged on the couch, with Law- 
son to watch over me. I had persuaded Clare 
to return to her guests. He pronounced my 
sprain a severe one, and no amount of persua- 
sion on my part would induce him to say that 
I could return home on the next day but one, as 
I had intended doing. 

“Quite impossible, my dear young lady,” he 
said, as he drew on his gloves; “that ankle 
requires close attention for the next ten days, 
and traveling sooner than a fortnight is out of 
the question.” 

For two days I was not permitted to leave 
my room, and was very much petted by Clare, 
64 


and Other Stories* 


who was most charming in her new role of nurse. 
Each morning I received a lovely bouquet from 
Captain Trevillion, and Cecil afterward in- 
formed me that he had “risked his complex- 
ion” to pick certain choice peaches for me him- 
self. 

The third day the doctor finally yielded 
to my entreaties, and allowed my couch to be 
wheeled into Clare’s sitting room, where I 
found the entire household assembled to do me 
honor. Captain Trevillion had come directly 
to me, and while bending over me, apparently 
to readjust one of my cushions, he whispered, 
“My darling,” very low. I gave the cushion 
an angry jerk, and turned my head away from 
him, although my heart was beating wildly at 
his words. With a look of surprise he turned 
aside and entered into a discussion in which Sir 
Eichard and Mr. Westinghouse were engaged. 
Presently tea was brought in, and general con- 
versation followed, till finally Mr. Westing- 
house, who had been sitting a little apart with 
Clare, whispered a few words to her. With a 
blush she nodded “Yes,” and together they left 
the room. A few moments later I saw them 
driving in the dog cart up the avenue through 
the park. Cecil, who had been talking in a low 
tone to Miss Carleton not far from my couch, 
pulled his chair still nearer to me, and began, 
suddenly: “Oh, I say, Doris — ” then stopped 
and looked at Miss Carleton, who, to my amaze- 
ment, was blushing furiously. “We have 
something to tell you, Beatrice and I,” he con- 
tinued. “Can you guess what it is?” 

65 


One Woman's Fate 


“Really, Cecil,’ ’ I exclaimed, sitting up in 
my excitement; “has Miss Carleton really ” 

“You must call me Beatrice, too,” said Miss 
Carleton, rising and coming over to join Cecil 
beside me. She added: “We shall be very 
good friends, I am sure.” 

“Well, I think Cecil is to be congratulated,” 
said I warmly. 

“Iam the one, rather,” she corrected, sweetly, 
and bending her lovely head she kissed ma. 
To my surprise, Cecil followed her example, 
then ran out of the room with Beatrice in hot 
pursuit. Sir Richard was called away in a few 
minutes, and I was left alone with Captain Tre- 
villion. 

He had been gazing absently out of the win- 
dow, but as the door closed after his father, he 
hurried to my side. “At last, my love, they 
have left you to me. Doris, you know how I 
love you,” he continued, before I could speak, 
“and I want you to be my wife. Will you 
wear this, dearest?” slipping an exquisite half 
hoop of diamonds on my finger. “I could not 
wait any longer to get it, so ran up to town yester- 
day when the house was so desperately dull 
without you. Little one, say those dear words 
to me again — the sweetest words that ever gave 
man hope — say: ‘Norman, my dearest, I love 
you , 5 and I shall be content. Why, dear heart, 
what is it? Don’t you like it?” in a disap- 
pointed tone, for his ring had fallen from my 
finger to the floor, and I had buried my face in 
my hands. 

“No, no! Not that. It is beautiful,” I 
66 


and Other Stories* 

stammered incoherently, trying to control my 
voice. 

“But you do love me, dear? Surely you love 
me,” he repeated. As I did not reply, he asked 
in a pained tone: “Doris, won’t you trust me? 
Why do you treat me so?” 

Summoning all my wounded pride then, I 
started up, exclaiming indignantly: “Captain 
Trevillion, can’t you understand? Am I so 
weak, so childish, do you think, that I will 
allow a man to make love to me as a mere pas- 
time? Were you free, it would be different, 
and I might, perhaps, listen to you ; but — wait, 
please,” as he was about to speak — “I know 
all. Was it manly or generous of you to take 
advantage of words spoken almost uncon- 
sciously?” I blushed as I recalled them. “Oh, 
it was cowardly, it was unjust. Unjust to 
yourself, to me, and” — a slight pause — “to Miss 
Allison. Ah, you see they have told me,” for 
I saw a quick contraction of the brows, and he 
made a hasty gesture with his hand. “Could 
she but know — ” Something in his face 
made me stop abruptly, and I fell back among 
my pillows. 

“We will leave Miss Allison’s name out, if 
you please,” he said sternly. 

I knew then that I had gone too far. 

“So they have told you that?” he went on, as 
he slowly paced the room; “and you think me 
dishonorable enough to ask one girl to marry 
me when I am already the accepted lover of 
another? How meanly you must think of me,” 
bitterly, “and yet” — with a short, unnatural 


One Woman's Fate 

laugh — “after all, I am not so black as you 
paint me. But I am tiring you,” as I closed 
my ©y©s wearily. “I shall not attempt an 
explanation; good-by, Miss Lane.” 

The next moment I was alone, and my pent- 
up emotions at last giving way, I cried as if 
my heart would break. “Oh, Norman, my 
darling,” I sobbed, “if you only knew how I 
love you! if you only knew!” 

That evening, when Clare came to bid me 
good-night, she looked very grave and quite 
unlike her usual gay seif. 

“Is anything the matter, Clare?” I asked, a 
sudden fear creeping over me. 

“Oh, Doris!” she replied, “Norman has just 
told father that he leaves to-morrow for town, 
and expects to join his regiment in Egypt next 
week. Something has happened, I know, for 
it was all arranged that he was to go to 
America. You know, of course, that he is 
engaged to Emily Allison?” 

“Cecil told me,” I answered faintly, and 
Clare continued : 

“They expect to be married in October, and 
go direct to Cairo, but perhaps Norman has 
changed his plans and intends having another 
furlough, so as to travel in America on their 
honeymoon. Yes, that must be it,” then with 
a good-night kiss she went into her room. 

I sat for some time in the moonlight, looking 
out into the night, then, all at once, I saw some 
one come out of the house and walk slowly to 
and fro on the terrace. It was Norman, his 
arms folded, his head bent slightly, and lost in 
68 


and Other Stories* 


thought. As I leaned a little forward, the bet- 
ter to see him, he turned suddenly in his walk 
and looked up. I drew back, but not before I 
saw him raise his hat quickly and the moon 
rays fell full upon his face as our eyes met for 
an instant. 

Next morning, when I heard that he had 
gone, all the light and joy faded for a time 
from my life, and I longed for solitude. 

Ten days later, I returned home with a heavy 
heart, and it seemed as though years had 
elapsed since my departure. 


in. 

The summer passed slowly and quite un- 
eventfully to us. Clare had written me of her 
engagement to Mr. Westinghouse,and was very 
happy in her love. 

“You must be one of my bridesmaids,’ ’ she 
wrote. “Jack sends his love — very improper, 
I tell him — and says it is to be some time in 
October, but I think that will be entirely too 
soon.” Underneath the letter was written in a 
clear, manly hand: “It is to be in October, 
surely, Miss Lane, and we count on you to 
assist in the ceremony, which will make me the 
happiest of men.” 

“My sister Anna and my father’s curate, Mr. 
Brooks, were married very quietly one Septem- 
ber morning, and went to live in the tiny home 
we had taken such pleasure in arranging for 
them. 


69 


One Woman's Fate 


Mr. Brooke’s younger brother had been 
spending the last two months before his mar- 
riage with him, and as we had been thrown 
continually in each other’s society, a warm 
friendship between us was the result. I had 
hoped to have it always so, but on the evening 
of the wedding day, as we walked slowly 
around the gardens together, Felix Brooke told 
me of his love. 

“Doris,” he began suddenly, in a tone which 
was strange for him, “I am going away to- 
morrow, you know — but I can’t leave you with- 
out telling you how I have grown to love you ; 
how necessary you are to my happiness. I 
know I’m not half good enough for you, dear, 
but won’t you try and care for me, just a 
little?” 

“Oh, don’t, Felix, don’t say any more,” I 
whispered tearfully. “Ido care for you very 
much as a dear friend, but not in that way ; 
oh! not in that way at all!” 

“Won’t you give me some hope?” he asked 
eagerly. “I might go away, and perhaps, in 
time ” 

“No, no,” I interrupted hastily; “do not 
think it. It is quite, quite impossible.” 

* “Is there some one else?” he demanded, 
almost fiercely; then added more gently, “but 
I have no right to ask you that. Oh, Doris, I 
have loved you so, and would have tried so 
hard to have made you happy.” 

After breakfast the next morning he went 
away, apparently the brightest and gayest of 
men, but when he came to take leave of me 
70 


and Other Stories* 

every trace of color faded from his face, and 
he whispered : 

‘ 4 Doris — darling — good -by. ’ 9 
“Dear fellow,” I thought, as I stood in the 
doorway looking after him. “I almost wish it 
had been my fate to make him happy.” 


IY. 

Late in September the doctor prescribed a 
change of air for mother, and advised me to 
accompany her. We went for a month to the 
south of France, where, some time after, we 
were joined by Sir Richard Trevillion and 
Clare. 

“Our last little journey together,” the old 
gentleman had told us, “before that fellow, 
Jack, takes possession of my property.” 

It had been arranged to have a double wed- 
ding in November, Cecil being of one mind with 
Mr. Westinghouse that “long engagements 
were a deuced bore — et a quoi bonV 9 

One morning, as we sat watching the people 
on the beach, Clare suddenly jumped up, ex- 
claiming: “Why, father, look! Here is Miss 
Allison, coming this way. What do you sup- 
pose brought her here?” 

For an instant my heart stood still. At last 
I was to see the girl, who, all unconsciously, 
had robbed me of one dearer than life. 

“Why, bless my soul, so it is!” I heard Sir 
Richard say; and hi3 voice sounded far away 
to me; “but that is not her father with her.” 

71 


One Woman's Fate 

“Oh, he must be somewhere around,’ ’ an- 
swered Clare vaguely, and ran to meet Miss 
Allison, who was evidently much surprised and 
returned her embrace warmly. We were near 
enough to hear an astonished exclamation from 
Clare, and to see Miss Allison blush very pret- 
tily , as she presented her companion, a young 
man of about thirty — then she hastened to speak 
to Sir Richard. After inquiring for her parents, 
Sir Richard turned to us, and presented “Miss 
Allison.” Again the charming blush, which I 
was attributing to the unexpected meeting with 
the father and sister of her betrothed, when she 
said gently, but with evident pride: “No, Sir 
Richard, not Miss Allison now. Donald” — to 
the young man standing beside her — “this is 
Sir Richard Trevillion, of whom you have often 
heard us speak. Sir Richard, permit me to 
present my husband — Mr. MacLane.” 

For a moment I thought I should faint; then 
recovered myself sufficiently to acknowledge 
Mr. MacLane’ s polite bow. Could it be possi- 
ble that this was another Miss Allison? But 
no, for, later, I heard Clare ask: “Father, w*hy 
did she not marry Norman? When was their 
engagement broken off?” 

Sir Richard looked grave and answered 
slowly: “My child, that engagement should 
never have been. It was infatuation more than 
love in their case, and, when on shipboard 
returning home, Miss Allison met and loved 
Mr. MacLane, she wrote at once to Norman ask- 
ing for her release.” 

I caught hold of mother’s arm for support 
72 


and Other Stories* 


and walked on with fast beating heart, for I 
realized that he was free and that I had 
wronged him. It was for me to make amends. 

I listened eagerly as Sir Richard continued : 
“Norman showed me the letter the evening 
before he left last June. He told me that he 
knew now it had been all for the best, and asked 
me not to mention it until his return. It all 
had to come out now.” 

“Poor, dear old boy,” sighed Clare, “and 
when Cecil and I are so happy, too. 

“Perhaps Norman is not altogether so un- 
happy as you might imagine, my dear, ” said her 
father smiling — and was it mere fancy — did he 
glance at me as he spoke? I hope not, for my 
face flushed hotly at his words. 

The remainder of our visit passed very 
quickly. We parted from the Trevillions at 
Dover, but not before Sir Richard had per- 
suaded mother and father — for father had joined 
us then — to be his guests on the day fixed for 
the weddings. 

In spite of the pleasure I was anticipating 
from my visit the thought of how different 
everything would seem often made me very 
wretched. How I should miss Norman and all 
his loving attentions to me. 

Once more I arrived at Hatherleigh, but this 
time it was Cecil who met us at the station. 

“The amount of time and thought those girls 
have spent on what they call their ‘trousseaux’ is 
simply shameful,” he explained as we drove 
along. “But I say, Doris, what a pity you 
didn’t encourage that nice chap, Ferrars, when 
73 


One Woman's Fate 


you were here before. He’s here now — come 
on to see Westinghouse through to-morrow. 
You know, of course, my best man is — ” the 
carriage stopping in front of the door inter- 
rupted him, and Sir Richard, Clare and Beatrice 
stood waiting to welcome us. 

We found Mr. Ferrars and Mr. Westinghouse 
in the drawing room and after much excitement 
and many congratulations I was hurried up- 
stairs by the brides-elect to have a peep at the 
wedding gowns. Having admired everything 
to their satisfaction, I dressed hurriedly for din- 
ner, in order to have time to revisit some of the 
places made dear to me by past associations. 
In the music room I found Mr. Ferrars, picking 
out an accompaniment on the piano. 

“Oh, Miss Lane,” he exclaimed, as I stood 
in the doorway, “won’t you play this over for 
me? It is one you sing, and I can’t quite man- 
age it.” 

I consented, and as soon as he had finished 
singing, the dressing-bell sounded, so that he 
left the room. 

I remained sitting at the piano, my fingers 
wandering idly over the keys. A pile of music 
lay beside me, and I absently picked up the top 
piece. It was an old favorite of mine, and one 
that I had sung very often for Norman in the 
old days. My lips trembled a little now, as I 
whispered the song : 

" The ways of Life are often clouded sadly, 

And where the roses grow oft thorns appear ! 

Altho’ the heart has loved and trusted madly, 

The parting hour, alas ! so soon is near ! 

74 “ 


and Other Stories* 


I read of love in thy sweet glances, dreaming, 

They told of love and happiness for me ! 

Alas! my heart! twas naught but lovely seeming. 
Alas ! my heart ! it was not thus to be ! 

“ Wrong, grief, and hate were mine, and weary sadness; 
A wanderer I, upon Life’s stormy wave ! 

I dreamt of peace and quiet hours of gladness ; 

My faith in thee such hope and promise gave ! 

Then joy was mine, beyond all mortal dreaming, 

My soul I gave in youthful hope to thee ! 

Alas ! my heart ! ’twas naught but idle seeming. 

Alas ! my heart ! it was not thus to be !” 

The last words came sobbingly. When it 
was ended, fond memories of the past over- 
whelmed me. I covered my face with my 
hands and repeated again and again the name 
of him who was all the world to me, while the 
tears fell hot and fast. 

Out of the shadow of the doorway came an 
unnoticed figure. Suddenly two strong arms 
stole round me, while the voice I had so longed 
to hear, whispered tenderly: “Doris — my little 
love. Forgive me — I could not stay away.” 
It was so unexpected that it is no wonder I felt 
dazed and could scarcely realize the meaning of 
the great happiness in my heart. 

“Oh, dearest,” I murmured, at length, “can 
you ever forgive me? My doubt, my ” 

“Hush, sweetheart,” he interrupted gently. 
“We were both wrong; but” — pressing me 
closer to him, as if to take the reproach from 
his words — “you might have trusted me.” 

Four years have passed since I received 
Clare’s first invitation to Grantley Grange. 

75 


One Woman's Fate 

My husband is Sir Norman now, and I am 
Lady Trevillion. 

A few months after our marriage God took 
Sir Richard from us — the only sorrow we have 
had in our wedded life. 

Only yesterday, as I sat before the fire in my 
dainty boudoir , adding these last few lines to 
my little tale of love, Norman came in and sat 
down beside me. 

“What is that, dear?” he asked. 

I answered laughingly: “Lots of nice things 
about you, sir, even from the day you first met 
me at the station; you remember?” 

“So well,” he said, slipping his arm around 
me. “The happiest day of all to me. Do you 
know why? No?” — as I shook my head with a 
blush. 

“Well, because I knew from the moment I 
saw you that you would be the love of my life.” 


76 


and Other Stories* 


HER STORY. 

Far over on the western horizon of beautiful 
Dering harbor the sun is sinking slowly to rest. 

A gentle hush has fallen on the water, and 
only the faint, caressing strains of a zither float 
upon the evening air, as the “Ave Maria/ ’ 
sweet as the breath of angel in heaven, breaks 
its stillness. 

The last note lingers, then dies sadly away, 
and, as if sounding its death-knell, the sunset 
gun booms from the shore. 

A girl reclining among the cushions on the 
deck of a large cutter at anchor sits suddenly 
erect, and pushes back some rebellious little 
curls from her low, white forehead. 

“I love that so/’ she exclaims, in a voice 
that is not quite steady, lifting a pair of moist, 
dark eyes to meet those of a young man, who 
has thrown himself upon the deck beside her, 
and is watching her intently; “you don’t 
know, Douglas, how I love it.” 

“But I do know that I love you,” he answers 
gently, taking one soft brown hand, and holding 
it captive between both his own, “better than 
all the world — than life itself. You know it, 
don’t you, darling? Dulcie, tell me that you 
will be my wife.” 

The girl’s eyes wander restlessly from one to 

77 


One Woman's Fate 


another of the twinkling harbor lights during 
the moment’s pause which follows, then : 

“There is something I shall have to tell 
you,” she begins brokenly. “I honor and re- 
spect you more than any man I have ever 
known, Douglas — yes, and I love you, too — but 
mine is not the love that you deserve, dear — it 
isn’t, indeed; that love — I gave — to some one 
else. Listen: I will tell you now, while the 
others are ashore, what you alone have the right 
to know of my past life.” 

She draws her hand slowly from his, and lets 
it fall with the other in her lap; then, with her 
eyes fixed on the still, blue water, begins: 

“We were traveling in Europe, mamma, 
auntie and I, for nearly a year. Early in April 
we arrived in Paris, and it was on Easter Sun- 
day at the Pontificial Mass at Notre Dame, that 
I for the first time heard that ‘ Ave Maria,’ and 
saw Eric Griswold. The music was stirring 
my inmost soul, and heaven seemed very near 
and real to me, when gradually I became aware 
that some one had taken the vacant chair be- 
side me, and was watching me intently. I 
turned my face toward him, and our eyes met 
for an instant. Something in his made my 
heart beat furiously, and I bent lower over the 
prayer book in which I was following the ser- 
vice. A few moments later we left the cathe- 
dral, and as I was stepping into our fiacre , a 
voice which somehow I knew must be his, said, 
close behind me, with a strong English accent: 
‘I beg pardon, did you drop these?’ I turned 
and saw him standing before me with his hat 
78 


and Other Stories* 


in one hand, and a bunch of half-faded violets 
in the other. I felt the hot blood rush to my 
cheek, and my would-be hauteur was deplorable. 
‘They are not mine,’ I answered. He bowed, 
and smiling at me with those wonderful eyes of 
his, he turned away.” 

Something very like a smile shines in the 
girl’s own eyes, as she pauses to live over, in 
memory, the incident; but there is something 
else there, too, that makes Kent say, softly: 
“Yes, dear, and then?” 

“Oh, then we drove back to the hotel, and 
the next day I met him. He dined at our table 
d'hote with a mutual friend, and she presented 
him. After that I saw him every day — two, 
three times a day usually, and he went every- 
where with us. In June, just before we left 
Paris, he was called suddenly home; his only 
sister was dying. How I missed him ! A fort- 
night later he rejoined us at Vichy and then — 
then I comforted him. How sweet it is to com- 
fort those one loves.” 

Here a little hand steals out in the starlight, 
and creeps gently into a larger one close by. 

“At Hamburg our engagement was an- 
nounced to a few intimate friends only, on 
account of his recent bereavement, and we were, 
oh, so happy. Returning to England we vis- 
ited his people. His father was a wealthy baro- 
net, and until the death of their daughter they 
had had everything in the world to give them 
happiness; everything but ” 

She breaks otf abruptly. Eight bells ring out 
clearly from a yacht anchored alongside, and 
79 


One Woman's Fate 


are echoed almost instanty by others in the 
harbor. 

“His mother told me,” Dulcie goes on pres- 
ently. “ We had been there only two days 
when she told me. Oh, it was awful. I shall 
never forget how I felt when she pronounced 
those terrible words; my heart seemed to die 
within me, but nothing mattered then, and I 
sat there for hours, I think, and listened. 

“I can see it all now, the great, cold-looking 
room, which never could seem homelike, the 
magnificent bronzes and marbles, the high, 
straight-backed chairs, like the one in which I 
was sitting, the piano where only a few hours 
before I had sat and played for him alone — all 
the old sweet airs he loved; I saw them each 
one in turn as I listened. 

“How I reached my room I do not know, and 
when I had locked the door I walked quite 
mechanically to the window and stood there 
staring vacantly out into the deepening twi- 
light. The dressing-bell rang. I neither heeded 
it nor stirred. The maid came to help me dress, 
but I called out to her that she was to make my 
excuses to her ladyship; I had a severe head- 
ache and would retire. Mamma came to the 
door later on, I remember, but I feigned sleep 
and did not respond when she knocked gently 
and called me by name, so she went on down- 
stairs. 

“I threw myself on the bed then, and lay 
there, motionless, till early dawn, seeing noth- 
ing, hearing nothing, save those pitiful words, 
wrung from a mother's agooized heart : ‘Upon 

80 


and Other Stories* 


in y children has fallen the curse of insanity; 
my daughter died in a fit of madness, and Eric, 
I have reason to fear, will not escape.’ 

“I found myself whispering it over and over 
half-aloud : 

“Eric will not escape. Eric, my Eric, my 
dear, dear love.” 

“Presently, with another thought, I grew 
calm and cold. He would have led me on — on 
until it w T as too late; till, some day I perhaps 
might have suffered as that dear woman suf- 
fered, when obliged to tell some sweet, confiding 
girl that another Eric ‘would not escape.’ 

“Douglas, even then I loved him, but I knew 
I could never be his wife. 

“I told him so, next morning, without betray- 
ing his mother’s confidence, and for the first and 
only time I saw in his eyes a look which only 
the curse could have brought there. Holding 
me tightly in his arms, he vowed to kill the one 
who would dare take me from him. I was 
becoming thoroughly frightened when suddenly 
he released me and fell senseless at my feet. 
Screaming loudly for help, I tried to raise him 
from the floor and carry him to the couch at 
the further end of the room, but my strength 
failed me, and I could only sit there holding 
his dear head in my lap and kissing his pale 
face, until help came. They moved him care- 
fully and laid him on the bed in his own room, 
where presently he returned to consciousness 
and asked for me. I went to him and stayed 
till — till the end. They had been expecting 
just such an attack in a moment of great excite- 
81 


One Woman's Fate 

ment, the physician assured me, and that was 
why she, Lady Griswold, had told me all. 

“We stayed till after the funeral, and then a 
week later we sailed for home. 

“I never thought of loving any other man — 
until — I met you, and — that’s all.” 

“Dear heart,” Kent murmurs, when she had 
finished, drawing her into the shelter of his 
strong, loving arms: “My poor little sweet- 
heart! But now, Dulcie, you will trust me and 
love me just a little, won’t you, dear?” 

“I do love you, and if after all you have 
heard,” she raises her head and looks steadily 
at him for an instant, then: “Oh, my dear,” 
she says with a little sob, pressing her warm 
cheek to his, “after all I have told you, are 
you sure, sure that you want me? Do you still 
love me?” 

“With all my heart,” Kent answers. 


88 


and Other Stories* 


AFTER THE BALL. 

“There! Now go, Katherine, I shall not 
need you any more to-night.’ ’ 

“Yes, miss,” answered the maid, and only 
stopping to push an armchair nearer the blaz- 
ing fire, she left the room. 

Ellean Talcott stood some moments before the 
dainty dressing-table, a little happy smile part- 
ing her lips, and “her thoughts on sweet mem , « 
ries bent.” Suddenly she gave a start, as her 
eyes fell upon a photograph on a table beside 
her. The likeness was that of a man of per- 
haps twenty-six, tall, handsome, and of dig- 
nified, soldierly bearing. The rather haughty 
expression of the eyes seemed to soften as Ellean 
gazed intently at the pictured face, and with a 
sigh pressed her lips gently to those which in 
life were never unresponsive to her caresses. 

“Poor Jack! He loves me so. How glad I 
am that he is not here now. It will be easier 
to write than to tell him that — that after all I 
cannot be his wife, for I do not love him as 
I thought, or as I hoped I should.” 

Mechanicallyreplacing the picture, she seated 
herself at her writing-table, and selecting a 
sheet of delicately monogrammed paper, began 
to write. For a few moments the faint scratch- 
ing of a pen was heard. She wrote quickly at 
$$ 


One Woman's Fate 


first; then more slow.y, and with evident diffi- 
culty, and finally the pen dropped from her 
hand ; she covered her face and whispered bro- 
kenly, while tears stole through the parted fin- 
gers: “How can I hurt him so? How can I be 
so cruel? Oh, Guy, Guy, why did } t ou come 
between us? Why will you make me break his 
heart, for he loves me as you do, dear. But I 
cannot give you up, Guy — no, not even for 
him.” 

The French clock on the mantel chimed out 
four, w T ben Ellean at last roused herself from the 
reverie into which she had fallen, and throwing 
herself upon the bed, fell into a dreamless sleep. 

When Ellean entered the breakfast room a 
guilty flush stole over her cheeks as she saw a 
letter, addressed in a well-known handwriting 
lying at her plate. She dropped it carelessly 
into her lap, and asked for cutlets and toast, 
but the unusual action was not unobserved. 

“My dear,” said her mother in gentle sur- 
prise, “I thought your letter was from Jack. 
Is it not?” 

“Yes, mamma, but it must wait. I am too 
hungry to think of letters till after breakfast.” 

A questioning glance passed between her 
father and mother, and Ellean saw it. 

“What will they say?” she thought, with 
fast beating heart. “They care so much for 
Jack; he has always been like a son to them 
both.” 

“Ellean, here are cards for Lady Winston’s 
ball in a fortnight. We shall go, I think; and 
my dear, wear something white, it suits you 
best,” said Mrs. Talcott. 

84 


and 0 tlier Stories* 


No one noticed the swift blush on Ellean’s 
face. Lady W inston was the aunt of Sir Guy 
Hartley, and it would well please Miss Talcott 
to look her loveliest at this ball. She sought 
her own room, and drew Jack’s letter from 
her pocket. He was her cousin, and had fallen 
ill with typhoid fever some six months ago, 
only a few weeks after their engagement had 
been announced. For days his life hung in the 
balance, but good nursing, and his own great 
desire to live, had gained the mastery over 
death, and he slowly recovered. It was now 
over four months since the doctor had sent him 
off on a long sea voyage, and he was getting 
restless for home comforts — and El lean. El- 
lean’s heart was very heavy as she read his 
words of love and longing. 

“I am so much better, darling,” he wrote, in 
conclusion. 4 4 The sea breezes seem to have 
quite set me up again, and your dear letters are 
such a comfort. But I miss you, sweetheart, 
and am longing for the time when 1 can hold 
you close in my arms and hear you tell me 
again that you love me.” 

The unfinished letter of the previous night 
lay where she had left it. She caught it up 
hastily, tore it into many pieces, and watched 
them burn to ashes. 

44 I cannot send that,” she said, half aloud. 
44 1 must wait, and when he comes home, I must 
tell him. Until then I will be true, and Guy 
must be patient and help me to do my duty.” 

The Dowager Lady Winston’s magnificent 
85 


One Woman's Fate 

drawing rooms were ablaze with light and 
crowded with the elite of London, and Lady 
Winston’s face wreathed in smiles as the portly 
bntler announced : 

“The Honorable Mrs. Talcott and Miss Tal- 
cott.” 

“So good of you, dear,” murmured the 
stately dowager, pressing Ellean’s hand warmly. 
“And~ looking more charming than ever. Ah! 
here comes a friend of yours. First in the field, 
as usual. Guy, see that this child enjoys her- 
self to-night.” 

“You may trust me to do my best, auntie,” 
he answered, smiling. “Miss Talcott, will you 
give me this waltz?” Many eyes watched them 
as they danced. Girls who would have given 
everything to be favored by Sir Guy Hartley, 
the biggrst fish in the matrimonial market at 
present, and men who were anxious to secure 
at least one dance from the proud Miss Talcott, 
the acknowledged belle of the season. 

All unconscious of scrutiny, these two, after 
a few rounds of the ballroom, found a delight- 
fully arranged spot for a tete-a-tete and Sir 
Guy feasted his eyes upon the girl’s beauty as 
he asked : 

“May I have my answer now, dear? I have 
been so patient, and did not even ask your rea- 
son for keeping me miserable a whole fortnight. 
Ellean, let me tell your father to-morrow that 
I love you — 'that we love each other. May I?” 

“Sir Guy,” Ellean began, a pallor born of 
her resolve creeping into her face, “Sir Guy, 
I cannot do as you wish ; at least not yet,” she 
86 


and Other Stories* 

added, for he had started up and stood looking 
down at her, his face as pale as her own. 

“I thought you knew it all along,” Ellean 
continued, “until you told me you loved me, 
and asked me to be your wife. Then,” and her 
voice trembled a little, “then I was not brave 
enough to tell you, but now I must. I am 
engaged to be married to my cousin, Jack Staf- 
ford.” 

“Ellean! My God!” 

“We were children together, Jack and I, and 
have always been very dear to each other,” the 
girl went on, “and so, when he asked me to 
marry him I thought I loved him ; I did, truly, 
Guy, and then — you came.” 

He caught her gloved hand in his and kissed 
it passionately. 

“Ellean, you shall be mine! I love you too 
well to give you up! You are my ideal of all 
that is sweet and lovely in woman. You will 
tell him, darling, that you were mistaken ; that 
your cousinly affection for him is not the love 
of a wife for her husband, and if he is the man 
I think him, he will release you from your 
promise; you will do this, dear, for my sake?” 

“I did try to write, Guy,” she answered, 
“for I knew you would come soon for your 
answer, but somehow the words sounded so 
cruel I knew not what to say. Then this morn- 
ing his letter came, such a happy letter, that I 
just couldn’t send mine, dear — not even for 
you !” 

There was a pause, then footsteps drew near, 
and a man’s voice was heard inquiring: “Have 
87 


One Woman's Fate 

you seen Miss Talcott, Bob? Her mother wants 
her directly, and I can’t find her.” 

After that, silence once more. 

“Try again to write, Ellean,” pleaded Sir 
Guy, as they went into the ballroom in answer 
to Mrs. Talcott’s summons. Promise me that 
you will?” 

“I will try, Guy,” she answered, gently lift- 
ing her eyes to meet his, and with a sad little 
smile, “to-night — after the ball.” 

“My dear,” Mrs. Talcott said, when they 
reached her, “I’m sorry, but we must go home 
at once. Your father has sent for us. He 
must be ill — or called away unexpectedly. Sir 
Guy, may I trouble you to order our carriage?” 

“Allow me to accompany you home, Mrs. 
Talcott,” Sir Guy said. “I might, perhaps, be 
of some assistance in case of illness.” 

“Oh, Sir Guy, how very good of you. But 
to miss the ball — ” began Mrs. Talcott. 

“The ball will have no charms for me — 
now,” he uttered the last word so softly that 
only Ellean heard it, as he bent over to fasten 
the obstinate clasp of her cloak. 

Mr. Talcott himself met them at the hall 
door. 

“Edward, what has happened?” and “Papa, 
you are not ill?” exclaimed Mrs. Talcott and 
Ellean at sight of him. 

“I’m all right,” answered Mr. Talcott sooth- 
ingly. “Ah, Sir Guy, so good of you. Come 
in, come in. I hated to send for you, but when 
that poor boy — ” He broke off suddenly and 
dashed away a tear, unseen by the others. 

88 


and Other Stories* 


They entered the drawing room, and were 
removing their wraps, when he turned to his 
wife and said in a low tone, handing her a bit 
of blue paper: “Read it, Laura; how shall we 
break it to our poor darling?’ ’ 

“Papa! What is it?” cried Ellean, for she 
had caught the last words. 

“There, there, my child. Be calm, be brave.” 
For Ellean had turned deathly white, and was 
trembling with emotion. 

“Jack!” she gasped, “not Jack?” 

Her mother came close beside her. “Read 
it, dear; it is better that you should know the 
truth.” 

“Our client, Mr. John Stafford, died this 
morning of heart failure. Have written par- 
ticulars. “Thomas & Campbell, 

‘ ‘ Counsellors-at-La w. ’ ’ 

The paper dropped from the girl’s nerveless 
fingers, and her eyes wandered vacantly from 
her mother, who was weeping silently, to her 
father, dreading the anguish of her grief. Then 
slowly, deliberate^ she turned them to where 
Sir Guy stood alone. 

“Dead!” she whispered brokenly. “Jack is 
dead. Oh, Jack, dear, you said if my love for 
you died, you would die with it. But you 
never knew, Jack, you never knew that I — • 
Ah, Guy!” 

She threw out her hands toward him, stag- 
gered a little forward and fell senseless into the 
arms outstretched to receive her. 

89 


One Woman's Fate 


PAUL DE MARCEAU. 

A TRUE STORY. 

In a well-known town of Connecticut there 
was, some years ago, an institution generally 
advertised as “Miss Blank’s Select Seminary 
for Young Ladies.” 

Among the boarders entered for a certain 
school year was one whom we shall call Fran- 
ces Ray, a girl possessed of more than the ordi- 
nary amount of good looks and common sense, 
and gifted with a rare charm of manner. She 
was Miss Blank’s favorite pupil; for had not 
Miss Blank known her from her earliest in- 
fancy, when the little motherless baby had 
been brought to her aunt, Mrs. James Barber, 
of Gramercy Park, New York, and was not 
Miss Blank that aunt’s “very dearest friend?” 
Yes, Frances Ray was undoubtedly clever; no 
girl in her class could equal her in science, in 
mathematics, or even in history. Yet there 
was one thing in which she was a complete 
failure — namely, French. 

Hour after hour she would sit poring over a 
grammar or a copybook, hopelessly at sea as 
to number, gender or conjugation, when even 
that chosen verb for all beginners — the verb 
aimer — was to her mind but a confused mud- 
90 


&n d Other Stories* 


die, in which terminations and the ‘ ‘ three per- 
sons’ ’ of both singular and plural fought for 
the supremacy. 

Toward the end of the first term, the French 
professor, M. Lemaitre, died of heart failure, 
and Frances Ray wept bitter tears at the loss of 
her helper and sympathizer. And when Frances 
Ray wept she was beautiful ! Strange as this 
may seem to girls who look their worst in the 
hour of their woe, the fact remains that to 
Frances Ray grief was becoming. 

Then it was that Miss Blank, almost in 
despair at such disarrangement of her classes, 
answered M. de Marceau’s advertisement, and 
called upon him. 

The interview was most satisfactory, and, 
M. de Marceau’s extreme youth being the only 
objection, he, after promising the utmost dis- 
cretion, was duly engaged, and a week later he 
entered the school. 

From the first the girls adored him. They 
admired his eyes, his hair, and the tiny “Van 
Dyke” he wore; they raved over his perfect 
accent and courteous manners ; all save Frances 
Ray — she alone disliked him. 

M. de Marceau was, in the main, true to his 
promise. Never, by look or word, did he show 
the slightest partiality, except in the severity 
and marked coldness with which he treated 
Frances Ray. Day after day the girl came to 
the French class with a dozen others, and sat 
there, unable to recite or to read, before the 
unquailing eye of the professor she detested. 

At length, toward the end of the year, un- 
91 


One Woman's Fate 


willing to bear the disgrace of her low standing 
in this one study, Frances Ray implored Miss 
Blank, with a burst of tears, to allow her to 
discontinue her lessons in French. And Miss 
Blank, touched by her favorite’s grief, drew the 
lovely head to her, and kissing the tear-stained 
face, granted her request. 

From that day until the close of school 
Frances Ray was a changed girl. She no 
longer looked forward with trepidation to the 
dreaded hour of verbs and fables, in a tongue 
she could not master. 

She laughed and chatted gayly with her com- 
rades, and sang sweet songs of love and sun- 
shine, with no gloom of unlearned idioms and 
exceptions overshadowing her. 

In the midst of examinations and packing a 
great excitement occurred. Miss Blank was 
going abroad for the summer, and had decided 
to take six of her girls for a three months’ tour 
of the Continent — and six only! 

Frances Ray was one of the first who wanted 
to go, but when not less than twenty girls 
begged to be allowed to join the party, Miss 
Blank, in despair, appealed to M. de Marceau. 

“Which of these young ladies are the six 
most capable of profiting by the voyage, with 
regard to their studies?” she asked him; and 
M. de Marceau made a selection. 

“But Miss Ray! My dear Frances — surely 
she will learn her French in Europe!” Miss 
Blank exclaimed, for Frances Ray was not one 
of the chosen six. 

“Pardon, mademoiselle! Mees Ray, who 

92 


and Other Stories* 


cannot learn ze first of ze rules wiz me, could 
she zen speak wiz strangairs?” answered the 
Frenchman, with a shrug. 

And Frances Ray, bitterly disappointed, 
flashed an indignant glance at her tormentor 
and left the room. 

The night before the sailing of the steamer 
La Bretagne, on which accommodations for the 
party had been secured, Miss Blank passed with 
Mrs. Barber, Frances Ray’s aunt. 

In the afternoon, during a last conversation 
with M. de Marceau, Miss Blank had partially 
promised to attend that evening a debate on 
“The Literature of Our Times,” which was to 
be held at Delmonico’s, where M. de Marceau 
and several of his literary friends were expected 
to speak. Now, Miss Blank was decidedly 
interested both in the debate and in the young 
Frenchman himself, but how could she attend 
such a meeting alone? 

“Mees Ray, would she not come also?” De 
Marceau questioned; “she would not under- 
stand, but Mees Blank could zen come.” 

Frances demurred at first. “I hate that man 
so!” she exclaimed; “I can’t bear to be near 
him.” 

Then, as a little sigh of resignation escaped 
Miss Blank, the girl turned quickly, and fling- 
ing her arms around her teacher’s neck, declared 
that they would go. 

Accordingly that evening found them listen- 
ing to various able speakers, and it occurred to 
Frances Ray that she understood far more of 
the French than she had expected to understand. 

93 


One Woman's Fate 


M. de Marceau and his friend, M. Charbonnier, 
saw the ladies home; at least M. de Marceau 
walked to the car with Miss Blank, and his 
friend with Frances Ray. 

The car was crowded, and Miss Blank found 
some difficulty, even with M. Charbonnier’s 
assistance, in forcing her way inside. And not 
until they were several blocks nearer home did 
they discover that the others of their party were 
not in the car. 

Frances Ray had been standing on the first 
step of the street car, waiting for a chance to 
follow Miss Blank, when suddenly a hand 
caught her arm and pulled her backward, and 
in another moment the car sped quickly down- 
town, leaving her alone with the man she 
dreaded and loathed, who whispered hoarsely : 

“You shall not go, Mees Ray, until I haf 
told you — that I luf you — yes, even I” — seeing 
her shrink from him as he bent toward her the 
better to scan her face in the lamp light. 
“Why did I treat you so cruelly, and make 
you hate me, when I was, all ze time, longing 
to take you in my arms — to kiss away ze tears 
my sternness had brought to zose dear eyes? 
Why? Because I had promised Miss Blank on 
my honor that to not one of her pupils would I 
breathe a word of luf. But now I am free, free ! 
To-morrow I leaf for France, for my home. 
Gif me but one leetle word of hope, and soon 
I will come back for you, ma cherie, mon 
amour! Frances, ma petite reine, tell me zat 
you luf me. Ah! commeje V adore!” 

Half past eleven had chimed from the great 
94 


and Other Stories* 


oak timepiece in Mr. Barber’s library, when, 
as if in answer to her uncle’s vows of venge- 
geance, and to the tears of both her teacher and 
her aunt, the door opened to admit Frances 
Ray, pale, trembling and tearful. Under a 
bond of secrecy she told them all that had 
passed, imploring her uncle to let the matter 
rest, as M. de Marceau would leave America 
the next morning, probably never to return; 
then she denounced him as the most detestable 
of men. 

As she stood for a moment on the gangplank 
next morning, after bidding Miss Blank good- 
by, Frances Ray selected two red rosebuds from 
a bunch she wore and threw them, with a pretty 
gesture, at her teacher’s feet. Scarcely had 
they touched the deck when Paul de Marceau, 
stepping quickly forward, raised them gently 
— ay, tenderly — and, with infinite grace, pre- 
sented one sweet token to Miss Blank ; the other 
he pressed to his lips, unheeding the crowd who 
saw him do it, and murmured in Miss Blank’s 
all sympathizing ear: “Forgive me! I luf her, 
and — I must go.” 

Before La Bretagne had reached Havre Miss 
Blank knew of M. de Marceau’s love for Fran- 
ces Ray, and the story of his life. 

“I am in France a man of arts and letters; a 
statesman,” he told her. “I am rich, very 
rich ; but a quarrel with my father — a political 
quarrel — sent me to America. Now all is well, 
and you will see how I am received.” 

And surely enough, on the evening of land- 
ing, as they dropped anchor in the beautiful 
95 


One Woman's Fate 


harbor, a tender, gay with flags, illuminated 
with many-colored lights, and alive with peo- 
ple who cheered lustily to the accompaniment 
of the ‘ 4 Marseillaise, ” which sounded from on 
deck, steamed up alongside of the great ship, 
when a shout arose from a hundred voices of: 

“De Marceau! Do Marceau! Ones tu> De 
Marceau?” 

Then, as the young statesman appeared, bare- 
headed, before them, smiling and bowing his 
thanks for this reception, that sublimest of all 
French poets, Victor Hugo, made an address of 
welcome. When, three months later, La Bre- 
tagne sailed from Havre, Miss Blank and her 
pupils sailed on her, and Paul de Marceau came 
to bid them good-by. 

“When you see Mees Ray,” he said at part- 
ing, “eef she should ask for me, tell her I send 
her my compliments. But do not let her know 
what my life here ees, or my position. Should 
she one day care for me, eet must be for myself 
alone. Tell her, my friend, zat I could make 
her happy, and zat I could earn my bread and 
hers, but nuzzing more. I haf your promise?” 

“You have,” answered Miss Blank earn- 
estly. “I will say no more. And now, good- 
by.” 

Upon reaching New York, Miss Blank, hav- 
ing been relieved by parents and friends of the 
responsibility of her six summer charges, has- 
tened to spend one night with her friend, Mrs. 
Barber, and to see Frances Ray 

She found the girl in a deplorable condition, 
sad and listless — in short, in love. 

96 


and Other Stories* 


And finally, when they were alone, kneeling 
by Miss Blank’s side, her face hidden in -her 
hands, her eyes tearfully bright, Frances Ray 
confessed her love for Paul de Marceau. It was 
the “old, old story,” that she told between her 
sobs; he had loved her and she had scorned his 
love — had sent him from her, despising him. 
And now, when it was too late, the proud heart 
turned and sought its master in vain. 

“He will not come back,” she whispered 
huskily; “I told him it would be useless to do 
so. But oh, Miss Blank, I want him ! I want 
him so much!” 

Miss Blank tried to comfort her. The love 
was mutual, she assured the weeping girl, for 
he had told her all. He was a gentleman, and 
he could support her and make her happy. 

But Frances Ray refused to be comforted. It 
was all her own fault, she said to herself, and 
day by day she passed in hoping almost against 
hope, in mourning unceasingly for the bygone 
days, while even her prayers seemed unavail- 
ing. 

Six weeks later Miss Blank saw among the 
arrivals from Europe the name of “Paul de 
Marceau.” 

Soon after, having business in New York, 
Miss Blank called again upon Miss Barber, but 
was informed by the lordly butler, after wait- 
ing for some minutes, that “Mrs. Barber begged 
to be excused, and Miss Ray was well. The 
ladies could not see Miss Blank that after- 
noon. fy 

Grieved beyond measure at this extraordi- 

97 


One Woman's Fate 

nary message, but seeking no explanation from 
the servant, Miss Blank left the house, and has- 
tened to the hotel where M. de Marceau usually 
stopped. 

She was ushered into a reception room, and, 
seated by a door leading into an adjoining 
room, she distinctly heard De Marceau’s voice: 

“Tell ze lady I am not at home,” he said, 
and, without waiting for the man to return, 
Miss Blank walked out of the room and out of 
the hotel. 

“I don’t understand them at all,” the good 
lady muttered to herself, as she hurried down 
the crowded street, “but my conscience is clear, 
at any rate; so I won’t let it worry me.” 

One month from that time Miss Blank read 
in the paper an account of the marriage of 
“Miss Frances Ray, daughter of the late Mr. 
James Ray, of New York, to Mr. Paul de Mar- 
ceau, of Paris, at Grace Church, New York.” 

And she had received no word of invitation 
or of announcement ! 


Five years passed slowly and uneventfully 
to Miss Blank, still with her school in Connec- 
ticut, when one morning in early May a servant 
brought her a visitor’s card. It was heavily 
edged in mourning, and bore the name “Ma- 
dame de Marceau.” 

Miss Blank started up in glad surprise, and 
hastened to the door of her room. Then an 
ugly little frown puckered her brow, and she 
stood still to think. A moment after a smile 
98 


and Other Stories* 


chased away the frown, and hurrying down the 
broad stairway, Miss Blank entered the draw- 
ing room. A pale, sad-faced woman rose to 
meet her. There was a long, silent embrace, 
then: 

“It was good of you to see me, very good,” 
Madame de Marceau murmured, as they seated 
themselves side by side on the soft divan near 
the open window. 

“My poor child!” Miss Blank said gently, 
“how ill you look! How changed! And this 
mourning, dear, it is for ” 

She broke off abruptly, almost frightened by 
the look on the younger woman’s face. 

“It is for auntie,” she finished; “she died 
a week ago, and I arrived home in time to hear 
all, and have come to ask your forgiveness.” 

“Dear child, I can forgive and forget now 
that I have you back with me. But poor Eve- 
lyn, how sad, how sad !” murmured Miss Blank, 
wiping away a tear shed for the friend of her 
childhood. 

“All I can tell you without laying blame on 
one who — has been very dear to me,” Frances 
de Marceau continued, “is this — you were 
cruelly wronged. After your return from 
Europe, when I was wearing out my energy and 
strength longing for the man I loved, they — 
auntie and uncle — sent for him secretly. He 
came, as you know, and we were married. They 
told him, to make it seem to him that they had 
wanted him from the first, that it was your 
fault that they had not sent before. They told 
him that you bad said he was not a suitable 
99 


One Woman's Fate 

husband for a girl in my position. Ah ! I know 
it all now! Auntie told me at the end, and 
craved your forgiveness. Paul and I never 
spoke of it during our married life; so I did not 
know of the cruel deception of which they made 
you the author. My husband is wealthy, and 
a great statesman now — but, Miss Blank, I come 
to you with my little ones for shelter. I have 
obtained a divorce from M. de Marceau for 
desertion and non-support, and have come home 
to America at auntie’s request — to find her 
dying. Will you let us stay with you, my 
children and I, and I will pay for my board by 
teaching French? I have mastered it at last,” 
she added with a little weary smile; “I did not 
find my professor so severe when we were man 
and wife.” 

“You shall stay with me as long as I live. 
How happy you will make me ! And the dear 
children, when will they come?” Miss Blank 
exclaimed delightedly. 

“I brought them with me,” Madame de Mar- 
ceau said, rising deliberately and walking to a 
door which opened into a smaller reception 
room. “Paul! Diane! Come and see Aunt 
Elizabeth. Here she is . n 

Together they advanced toward the delighted 
old lady, hand in hand ; a handsome boy of 
nearly four, and a toddling baby girl of two 
summers. 

“Oh, you darlings!” Miss Blank cried, catch- 
ing them, first one and then the other, in her 
arms, and kissing them almost fiercely. “Yes, 
I am your old auntie, and you must never leave 
100 


and Other Stories. 

me again. Frances,” turning to the mother, 
who stood watching the little group with tear- 
dimmed eyes, “we must never mention the past, 
dear The present is happiness enough for me; 
I shall make yours in the future.” 


THE END. 


101 







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